


His Nondescript

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed!Sam, F/M, M/M, Mpreg, Series Spoilers, graphic birth, thoughts of abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, the best big brother a man could hope for,and the low-down, good-for-nothing dude who knocked Sam up.  Or, that time Sam dropped his guard and...this summary interrupted by the wrestling match currently taking place between two very large, grown men who can't behave themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: All rights to Supernatural and it's characters belong with the CW and Kripke and co. I stand to make no profit from this and own nothing.**  
>  Complete - chapter or two posted each day.  
> Two versions, I will post both: His Nondescript - non-Wincest; Their Nondescript - Wincest.  
> Both are roughly the same on up to Chapter Six, where they deviate relationship-wise as well as with Timestamps.  
> Originally written as a prompt fill in lj's spn_hardcore community.

Sam’s in the best position he could maneuver his untoward body into at the moment. Dean’s got his back, armed with as many cold wet rags, sterile gauze pads, and that weird nose bugger bulb thing.

As Sam's head slips a little further back towards Dean's shoulder in a bit of an herbal induced haze, _reliefcrampsloveloveloveherb_ , he's caught up in the memories of the how's and why's of where they are at the moment. Dean's wiping one of those soothing rags across his forehead, saying something about dopey kid brothers with their goofy smiles and long flaily limbs and Sam is sailing along now, pretty as picture in his organic happy place. Flashbacks washing bright white over the forefront of his mind, not realizing he's been mumbling. Not until Dean places a steady hand against his rock hard belly and the other palming his right cheek, ghost whispering in his ear.

"It's ok Sam, c'mon man just go with it."  
  
Sam's suddenly racked, pain breaking through - creating its own special kind of white wash and he's thrown backwards against Dean's chest as the contraction hits, _bellyinavicemygod_ , and he's moaning low, primal. Even through the deep breathing techniques and herbs and coolwetDeansupport the pain's like a living thing, causing this need to vocalize everything he's feeling. Now, Dean knows his brother's in pain but the moan breaks through even his steadfast exterior, causing an innate need to just stop whatever the hell is making Sam sound like that.

Dean's trying like mad not to tense, offering ridiculous affirmations in lieu of honest to god taking Sam's place. He would, he has before, he just...it's not his place here.

"Dude, that sounded like a wounded animal.   Breath Sam, c'mon man and remember your training, you've got this hands down.   So proud of you man."

As the next contraction rips through his torso and takes his breath away, Sam's only thought is that this whole birthing process can fuck off and kiss his manly size ass.   And it can take the 6'1" mister "you can do this" affirmation guy that's supporting his weight right the hell with it. That is until the contraction ends and Sam's been through some serious shit before, really, but he's going to cry like right now.

Big, man-size crying and he's ok with that, truly he is, because this is bunk. He'd like to be a little more intelligent sounding even in his own thoughts but at the moment,  all he wants is for Dean to not go anywhere and make it stop. That is until this next wave of, _ohgodnotoosoonjusthadone_ , spasms hits him and well, the whole world can go fuck off.

  
 

 


	2. Chapter 2

So, he’d like to say it all happened on a hunt, his luck running out in typical Winchester fashion. Truth be told, all Sam had wanted that particular evening was a beer that didn't curdle his stomach and a booth with a view yet still inconspicuous. Maybe his brother there with him to share, maybe not, depended upon whether he and Dean were in the same headspace.

He had to admit, it wouldn't have made or broken his vibe either way. Especially not after the last few days spent stepping over each other just to catch their breath. What is for certain, though, was he’d not been in a caring and sharing mood and that, hell that suited him and Dean just fine.

His brother’s intentions for that night’s festivities were just as simple. Find a bar, find a beer - preferably with something displaying an abundance of cleavage and hips attached to the bottle - and find a pool table.

They'd found just the place in another little backwoods town in upstate New York filled with kind faces, diner food, and quaint homes decorated in fall colors and -raked leaves.

They'd wrapped up another hunt during the week to add to their exhaustion, a nest of vamps that didn't know to keep out of nice people's homes. It was rude, deadly, and he and Dean had been itching for a case in which they could see results, feel a small sense of accomplishment in their work. The work was exhausting sure; the process of hacking off heads was tough but nothing compared to having to endure two days’ worth of Twilight barbs from Dean though.

See, the blood would wash off, eventually. Dean's bad puns on the other hand, that crap went on mental replay like a song being stuck in your head.

So here they were, another bar with neon signs flashing and an outdoor chalkboard stating, 'Thursday's dart championship canceled'. The booth Sam found was sticky with beer and god knows what else but worth it for the surrounding sight perspective. As soon as his ass hit the naugahyde a leggy waitress in black micro shorts and a pink wife-beater was in his space, leaning into the opposite side of his booth, "And you'll have?"

Quick flash of dimples to ease this night in, "Guinness, on tap. If not, Miller".

"Mmmmm, k", a loud crack-snap of gum and the waitress was gone.

Sam ran a hand across his face and placed sore, aching elbows up on the table. Looking around slowly, he eyed locals in the bar milling about doing nothing in particular, getting lost in their beer and jukebox serenades. There were a few younger college guys playing darts, laughing and shoving in a small circle, keeping to themselves, while a large group of women sat at an extended table closer to the bar. Their hair done up and spritzed, straightened, work outfits and business attire none of which took away the tired circles under their eyes. A quiet brunette from the group caught his gaze, gave away a shy grin, all nude satin lips and pale complexion with and Sam nodded in return.

She was stunning, lines around her eyes crinkled, posture sure and Sam knew, was positive she could teach him a thing or two however, she wasn't what he was going for tonight.

Sam turned his gaze towards the bar and watched a man in khaki pants and a white button down fidget, peeling his wet beer label off into thin papery crumbles. The guy was about as nondescript as all the other's in the place, nothing noteworthy from the angle in which he stood. Watching, Sam noticed there wasn't a stereotype one could pinpoint in the man's stance or his outfit.

Whatever, he'd only noticed the guy because, well, he just did. The guy had jet-black hair shorter than his own and was, in fact, closer to Dean’s spiky cut. His face was turned towards the door so Sam hadn't gotten the chance to see the man’s features before hearing a slight commotion coming from the back of the bar.

He’d cast a quick look over towards Dean and then swung them right back towards the edge of the booth’s table where fingertips tapped out the cadence of some nameless tune. He’d seen the local move away from the bar out of his periphery but honestly, finding Dean had been more important and to that effect Sam was already lifting out of the seat.

The guy cleared his throat, a little raspy sounding, while his fingertips kept up with the thump thumping along the tabletop.

It’d taken a simple, “Hey” and a look up - not very tall - and damn, a gorgeous blush staining the most sinful of cinnamon colored cheeks he’d ever seen. Every nerve ending fired off and there was a full body twitch - what the hell - and then Sam's synapses fired off just before his mouth did.

Sam's mind spun, Dean, and yeah, a quick glance back to the pool tables and Dean was just fine, thank you very much.  
Using a slight jut of his chin up and down in acknowledgment of the other man’s presence, he managed to get over his gawking, asking, "Everything all right man?"

The man didn't bother with words, simply sat down and despite feeling intruded upon, Sam resisted an overwhelming need to squirm back into the corner. Typical aggressive behavior didn't sum up the air around him though, and Sam tried to relax as the stranger scooted in close, looked at Sam through thick eyelashes and gave an easy smile.

This, this was flirting and that, well, Sam could most definitely deal with that.

He and Dean had had their fair share of hook-ups throughout most of the states in the union but each place offered up varying degrees of tolerance on who was hooking up with whom. If this area held to more traditional values, no one seemed to take much heed, not paying a bit of attention to two men in an open booth, sitting together shoulder to shoulder. The acceptance, or lack of caring honestly, still didn't quell his twitchiness towards the man's proximity. No, that happened as Sam glanced sideways towards the man's face, now in full bar-lit view.

Sam took stock of the man's profile, dramatic chiseled features prominent up close, and when he turned to face him, Sam noted a light, gentle glint in the man's eyes. The look sizzled underneath Sam's skin, did nothing but to tamp down Sam's uneasiness. In fact, Sam was beginning to wonder why it was he was being so frou-frou on descriptions here, why it was he wanted to curl into this guy, why he didn't stand a goddamned chance against this guy’s charm.

If Sam had realized what was happening, the reason for his fog, the evening's scenario would be drastically different. As it was, he was embarrassed with himself when the man was staring in amusement at his spaced out look. Sam was zeroing in on every movement, the thump thumping of the man's fingers had somewhere in the interim turned into the swish swishing of fingertips circling the torn fabric of the booth’s seat. A flash of promise playing behind chocolate eyes, a steady circling of fingers closing in on his thigh.

***********

They had a routine, abided by it, kept each other grounded even when the world around them turned chaotic; nothing in their lives but a frenetic spinning of blood and ash. The routines were ingrained, something not to be messed with such as, Sam will always check the undersides of tables wherever they eat; it's a knee to chewed gum ratio really. Dean'll brush his teeth twice in the a.m. if the flea trap they're staying in has well water, it's a fluoride thing honestly. These type things help get them through the grind.

Dean's bar routine always involved a list of things to make a night kick ass. The checklist for this particular evening had gone something like this: Sam had safely tucked all four limbs into a booth, check. Beer finally in both their hands, check. Pool table and money to hustle, check. Waitress with legs up to the ceiling and full hips - all the better to grip on tight, push/pull of soft flesh under his hands, yes sir! - right on his flank, angling for a tip and maybe a quick toss out back, check. Sam with some guy, check.

Sam with some local guy, being hit on and playing it casual, odd but not problem. Sam was more than capable of socializing and not getting himself into trouble - some of the time.

What is not a check is the fact that this random guy squeezing in next to Sam, he changes that thought as the guy practically squishes Sam in the booth. The light from the bar is crap, sure, but there's enough to spot what's going on in the booth, and what's going on is...off. The pool cue slides slick in his hands as Dean finishes the last shot, not interested in the chase, just wanting the small earnings he's made and moving on; moving on to overgrown brothers who are not paying enough attention and allow random strangers to climb into their laps.

Dean's gaping at the scene openly now as his eyes lock onto the dude's fingers tracing circles on the seat, inching closer to Sam’s thighs which at present are bunching and bouncing in his faded jeans. No, not check. So not check. Far, far off the reservation of normal Sam behavior and tolerance, check. He's running through the gamut of possible reasons for what is on display over in Sam's booth, the only plausible one being either the stranger's on a suicide mission or possible incubus. It's not him being paranoid, it's that Sam never lets anyone venture inside his personal space (he's right there, c'mon Sam, what the hell?) except him.

It’d taken seven long strides to get across the bar, not that he'd counted or anything, his lips forming a tense line, and his most prevalent thought was to who the hell was this guy getting his brother’s nerves rattled. And just for the record, did he mention his brother, the 6' 4" hunter? The one who was acting as jittery as a schoolgirl, considering the set of Sam's jaw, flexing then locking. The sound of teeth grinding a signal for as far back as Dean can remember of Sam's tell of apprehension.

Dean sat down opposite them, offering nothing more than a grunt and a pointed stare for the local pretty boy, who by all accounts needed to get the fuck away from Sam. Dingy bar in the middle of nowhere, a chance for them to blend in to the background and here Sam was, attracting attention with his…his mojo or whatever the giant dork used to attract people.

There's an air of nonchalant attitude towards Dean's intrusion, a small look of disdain upon the man's face his only tell. It's gone in an instance once Dean levels him with a pointed glare, one that promises a thorough ass beating, and right smack dab here at the table if need be. Hands that were previously maneuvering towards Dean’s brother’s thighs were now laid flat on the table in front of him. So yeah, that’d been pretty damn smart of him considering Dean was now going for the small knife tucked in his front coat pocket. He was a betting man, and he bet right there and then that he could hit the guy’s pinky dead on if it so much as twitched over the loose material of Sam’s jeans.

**********

Sam would later recall two very important thoughts sticking steadfast in the forefront of his mind during the bar conversation. One, he was one hundred percent positive that all 6 feet of pure male roughness brushing up against him would be over, under and most definitely between his thighs and lips tonight.

Two, it was glaringly obvious Dean Winchester had no clue as to his brother’s occasional foray into men. Not that Dean would have disapproved, in fact, Dean had a voracious ‘live and let sex be part of it’ attitude and if someone’s kinks differed from his, he was rarely one to complain. No, the not knowing was more him not confiding in Dean about his - differing tastes. And really, wasn't that just spectacular, yet one more barb in their new and tenuous relationship.

Sam did have viable reasons for not laying his preferences on the line, one of them being that the majority of previous experiences he'd had with men were under strict compliance with Jess’s rules while at Stanford. Jess had a system of sorts, of pre-screening guys Sam had taken an interest in, thereby making it fun, erotic and healthy. She was the first and foremost priority in his life during that time period, a woman who could play, love, and enjoy Sam's choices. Thoroughly.

After Stanford, life on the road with Dean – with his father – was difficult in finding the same pleasures; didn’t offer Sam the same opportunities he was accustomed at school. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a few manual laborers, farmers, mechanics that frequented the bars he and Dean would find themselves in. Quite the contrary, Sam found that men with calloused hands or a day’s worth of dirt/grease embedded in the lines of their palms tended to not shy away from a man of his size and physique. They saw it as a challenge, a knowing look thrown sideways, careful – always under scrutiny – and Sam, god, he was aching. Year after year of denial, of backing out of the challenge, against his nature, just to keep a secret and tonight, Sam couldn’t care anymore.

As it stood, it wasn’t a stretch of any sort to know Dean saw this stranger as an immediate threat and if Sam wanted that good and proper fucking he so deserved, then he needed to diffuse the situation like yesterday. Which meant a tight rope act of hastily, quietly, outing himself all while not giving Dean an aneurism.  
And if Sam’s shoulders hunched inwards due to tension, he was going to have to deal with it; after all, he doesn’t think it should be a problem, Dean’s an open-minded kind of guy. Still.

Sam's attention was snagged, briefly, by a shuffled knee, spreading the stranger’s legs wide, and despite the present company across from him, Sam’s dick took direct notice. He couldn't wait to get those lithe thighs between his with a handful of that jet-black hair to guide him where he wanted, see if his neck tasted as good as the perspiration and cologne on it smelled. Sam was betting that hard jut of cock he could see outlined through the man's khakis could take him apart, have him begging and Jesus, it’d been fucking years since he’d been ridden hard, held down, equaled in strength.

With that final thought he turned to throw a quick look to mystery guy and hoped to the universe that he recognized Sam’s desire for him to follow his lead. It was plain to see the guy knew Dean was an obstacle, his hands placed in as non-threatening manner as possible, flat on the table, body totally free of violent tension. So at ease, in fact, that Sam found himself sliding closer to the warm body hoping to garner some of the man’s calm. A flash of confirmation in his warm brown eyes had Sam being hard as nails to ready to cream himself right there in the booth, Dean be damned.

Speaking of whom, Sam turned to his brother, face as lax as he could make it, and started, “Yeah, so listen,” eyebrows furrowing in concentration, “he’s with me, Dean.”

“With you.”

A tilted beer and Sam suddenly mourned the loss of his alcohol, what with Dean’s ninja skills.

“So then, you mean,” Dean’s eyes zeroing in, narrowed, not backing down towards the stranger, “you’re talking what, Sam? Watching the game, hunting some local wildlife, or…I don’t know, dealing with the hand that was about to grab your junk?”

If Sam were a few years younger he‘d have died of embarrassment in reaction to Dean's bluntness, only he wasn’t, and he understood the directness, that it was more than just brotherly play.  
Yeah, he could totally see how odd a situation this was, and the warning signs of something less than desirable, and countered, “Dean, look, he’s…” and oh damn, he actually might need a name.  
Awkward.

Sam turned to the guy, allowed for his shoulders to relax, his shirt falling loose against his upper arms the instant he did so, and with a slight smirk said, “I’ll need a name.”

“Oh I don’t know Sammy, you’re gonna need a helluva lot more than that if Mr. touchy - feely over there…”

“Dean!”, Sam yelled it a little louder than necessary, the stranger’s body shaking a little with a laugh that vibrated across where their thighs met, and fucking hell. Sam was about two shakes from dying of blue balls.

"Aww, c’mon Sam, we do this every single time. I leave for a second and you’ve gotten yourself in trouble…”, Dean wasn’t going to back down an inch and somewhere inside, somewhere far past the selfish, horny bastard that was front and center, Sam’s insides melted. Maybe a little, alright, a hell of a lot but now wasn’t the time for that, not when Dean was tap, tapping the bottom edge of his beer bottle against the table; a look of pure contempt for the man next to him etched into the crinkles of Dean’s eyes.

Enough was enough though, and Sam wasn‘t above hissing like the bitch Dean always touted him. “Back off a little Dean, it’s not like that this time. There’s no threa...”, he was stopped in his tracks by Dean’s coughing reminder then kept on, “there’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s David.”

The brothers turned, taking in the man…David.

“So you two came in together and yes, I’d assumed friends, not lovers. Suppose I’d assumed wrong and I’ll just be leaving….”, his accent was almost non-existent yet Sam was able to pick up a slight Spanish lilt and then reality hit him in the face, what the man had just implied.

“Brothers.” In unison, it just happened to be a well-practiced retort, not strange at all. David was muttering quietly now, khakis squelching against the booth as he slid out to exit. Only to sit back down harshly when he’d been stopped by Sam’s large hand gripping his bicep.

David looked utterly nonplussed, used a respectful tone when he started, “Dean is it?”  
He leaned back a bit, allowing himself to be gripped tighter by Sam, white dress shirt rucked up and wrinkling from the abusive hold.

“Dean, I have a hunch his concern will be mine as well tonight. His virtue, his well-being, his ass…you know, just for the night. Promise,” a wink at the last, and Dean’s eyes popped a bit wider than normal, his breathing picking up just a hint, the topic of anything concerning Sam’s actual ass uncomfortable.

David continued, “Now whether you‘ll be providing me hands-on help is up to Sam, if he’s up for that level of intimacy. And believe me, it’s not the brother issue for me, it’s the sharing. You see, I’m only asking for one night, with your brother, alone.”

There was laughing, someone was thinking this was funny and then, “You smug douchebag…damn man, we don’t swing that way. Right, Sammy?” Cocky eyebrows leveled towards Sam and he found himself cowed, stunned, and horribly silent in the wake.

“Holy Shit”, and there was no doubt whatsoever in Dean’s seated arrangement, back ramrod straight, face pinched in confusion and a little bit of anger maybe, that he was stunned as well.

David huffed out a sharp laugh, “You guys have that ‘in unison’ thing down. I’m impressed.”

Somewhere in Sam’s memory banks he’d recalled hearing the jukebox start another round of AC/DC tributes thinking, “Hells Bells”, how appropriate.

All three men sat quietly, with Sam still keeping a good grip on David. All Sam wanted was to get laid in as normal a fashion as every other guy but it seemed remote, not even a possibility. The situation wasn’t dire or anything so Sam had to man up here because there weren’t even words to describe the plane of horrified existence he was currently traipsing around.

Forget for a moment the state of everyone’s concern for his virtue, and what an emasculating bit of a head-trip that was. Rather, concentrate on watching your older brother get propositioned by your soon to be future lay who also happens to be male. A best friend type of brother who up until five minutes ago had no clue you were bisexual. Oh sure, the Winchester boys never had a problem finding women to share, the offers were made on a regular basis. It's just - it wasn't Sam who ever shot them down. Dean always beat him to it, said he didn’t like sharing and left it at that.

“Dean, you know, I just think," and Sam’s speaking and waving his free hand around, “ it would be nice to just talk about this later - yeah? ‘Cause I’m not feeling up to dealing with this right now." Oh and by the way Dean, my dick still hasn’t gone down even with all the mind fuckery so could we speed this up a little. “And no Dean, you’re so not invited.“

There it was, on the table, and Dean suddenly knew exactly where his little brother stood on the whole issue. And fuck no, if Dean were going to fuck a guy, Sammy wasn’t invited either. Jesus Christ, that was, that was so bad Dean needed a moment to get the right perspective.

And just like that, a glimmer right out of the sky, perspective. If not calling his little brother out were an Olympic sport, Dean would totally be belting’ out the national anthem right now. He deserved the gold medal, flowers, kisses - damn! This right here, Sam was so going to pay for his super-secret box o’ secrets. Sam was a super-secret keeper. Fine, he wanted gone, Dean would let him walk away, but this shit was coming back to haunt the little twerp.

“Sam…I’d not only like to not talk about this, unless there’s something of a job-related interest,” to which both of them knew Sam would take precautions, Sam nodding his assent and gave a glare as Dean proceeded, “no, in fact, I’d like the steel wool brand of brain bleach. Seriously, dude, next time warn your big brother about your dirty little kinks, Sam. And since we‘re having the weirdest conversation to end ‘em all, you, David," pointed stare, jaw set, “as per that little offer you thought was so cute - like I said, I don’t share.” And with that, Dean started his exit from the booth.

All right screw it, make it the bronze medal….

“Oh and hey, Sammy,” already on his way back to the pool tables, Dean cocked his head to the side and smiled. Sam would know that shit-eating grin anywhere; any younger brother could pick up on the crap Dean was getting ready to spew forth. “Your bed, not mine. I don’t do wet spots.”

For the love of Christ, “Dean!”

“Remember – plenty of lube bro, engine‘s got to have it,” Dean’s mouth, Dean’s ass still walking and talking towards the back of the bar, “And prepping the work area, Sammy, always important.”

Sam’s inner five year old was no longer screaming. Nope, had she not passed out from the dread two minutes ago, Sam would have locked her up towards the non-knowing portion of his mental imagery ages ago. At this point Sam was simply hurling mental obscenities towards his big brother.

Sam had the floor so to speak, yet it was David who took the lead, the smaller man quick to stand, offering a nod for Sam to follow.

“My truck.” Sam watched the muscles of David’s back shape and move under his dress shirt as he shouldered through a small crowd near the entrance to the bar.

“Okay, about that, motel’s only a few streets over so we can walk.”

“Well Sam, I seem to recall telling your bodyguard/pimp back there that you were in my care for the evening. This includes getting all big boys home safe and sound. Seeing as I’d stopped drinking ages ago and that I like to have an out for any situation I find myself in, we’re taking my truck. You ready or do you need a moment to get your butch on, baby boy, because I have to tell ya, I get it. You're not a fem guy, point received. I need you to work with me a little more. No more mental freak-outs or I leave you two alone to work out all that non-sharing big brother's so adamantly denying."

Huh, and with that, Sam's getting a little sick of all this pushiness. Sam’s knee smacked a table’s corner, sent an electrical zing shooting straight down his leg. Wincing, he reached out to rub the sore spot. Looking up through his bangs, he caught sight of David tucking his lower lip under his top teeth, staring intently at Sam’s massaging hand.

“Yeah, agreed. I think. You know, I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. I just want get back to the room, all right? Long as we get there in one piece.” Sam rose and waved David on ahead, taking a sneak peak back to where Dean stood watch at the tables. Nods from both men, a look from his older brother towards the cell phone in his hands and with both nodding again, Sam was turning, following David out of the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

It was direct, a no nonsense, let’s get this shit taken care of pronto, dirty whore hook-up kind of conversation and it probably sounded like the world’s worst foreplay ever. Sam did not want to waste what sparse amount of time he was going to have on the small stuff. Time was going to play a huge factor tonight considering Dean had never told him the plans for the rest of his evening and it made sense to eliminate any confusion by planning ahead. He stopped, muttered obscenities as he realized he was that guy, the organized sex guy - the one with the extra supplies and the spare bottles of lube and the tissues.

David is watching Sam‘s expression turn inwards, internalizing, the young man holding back. A hunter, a guy like Sam, not lacking with issues in his life, there was no way he wasn‘t overthinking things.

“I’m not a bottom Sam, period. I know the size difference between us is a little off,” at this David’s eyes cut over to where Sam was spread out in his passenger seat, “all right, a lot off. I can promise you though, height and physique won‘t mean much after I‘m through with you.” He keeps his grin in check, watching as Sam shifts slightly, trying to ease the hard line of stiff in his jeans.

Sam has been fairly unconcerned with that part of the equation. “No problem, I don’t usually top. I mean, I have, it's not a big deal for me, switching it up, but no, that’s fine." David was nodding for him to continue. “So…I have plenty of supplies back at our room. Rules I’d like to play by tonight are fairly tame. No bareback, and I don’t do bondage. I’m game for a lot of kinks but I don’t want to have to use a safe-word tonight, all right?"

David's smile lit up, happy with his assumption of the man next to him being forthright, “Nice thing then, that we’re on the same page. I am a little sad about not getting to spank that ass of yours, but I’m not complaining." Two seconds later the truck gives a slight lurch as they sped up and flew towards the motel.

Sam fights the urge to fidget, lets himself get lost in his views on having vanilla sex, anything to get his mind off the need to get David’s pants undone, jack him off until they got to the room. His breathing hitches as he calms himself, thinking on no-frills sex as something boring as hell. You get in, you get off, and everyone's sated and unmarked. It’s never mind blowing for him and not even close to what his preferred methods range. For tonight, though, it’ll have to do.

They pull up to the room, unspoken moment between the two men to allow for a breather. That is until a small sigh escapes David, a release of adrenaline rather than annoyance, and Sam’s follows, both misting in the late evening air. Sam's out the door, walking in front of the truck, and increasingly aware of David's locked stare on his backside, his dick approving of him feeling like prey. He's not shaking, nope, and at this particular point in time, Sam just hopes to open the motel door without creaming himself, and really, he’s starting to wonder on his control.

The locked door though, holy mother of...the key is wobbling in his fingers as his blood flow, his nerves, center down south and he can't believe he's being overwhelmed by a motel door. Then again, Sam doesn't normally have David wrapped around him from behind, pressing him into said door. The smaller man’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head back while dry lips and sharp teeth roamed over Sam’s nape, causing his larger frame to shiver from tip to toe.

While the one hand rests in his hair, the other snakes around to Sam’s abs, sliding down towards his groin, cupping his sac through his jeans. No, not just cupping…rolling…lifting…squeezing his balls a touch south of too hard. All Sam can muster, his mind shutting down any other stimuli (hunter's instinct screaming in the background...warnings, alarms that he can't quite focus on) and it's just fucking splendid.

Somehow he manages to jiggle the doorknob open, stumbling forward with David latched on tight. Hearing David’s foot catch the door, a loud kick and a grunt and it's shut; Sam makes to say something, anything, feels legs nudging him forward. He gets it, no further hints required, no objecting. Sam lands stomach down, ass up on the queen-sized bed, stunned breath punched out while David takes full advantage of the new position by sliding right behind him and between Sam’s thighs.

“Too many clothes, have to get rid of all these ridiculous layers covering you up Sam. Nothing in the way of your back, your chest," slow slide of tongue, "that sweet, flat belly of yours." Soft hands work quickly, his layers of shirts being rucked up, off.

The motions are blurring together, he's trying to gain some control over the rush of blood spilling away from his brain but then he's being grabbed by the hips. David digs his fingers firmly in place, pulling Sam’s ass further in the air, nice and snug against his cock, and Sam's control is an idea, a wisp of want compared to the needy ache slithering down his spine.

“Shit”

David gives a soft laugh until Sam wriggles, friction causing him to sink his chin to his chest and groan. It takes a massive effort to lift his head and lean over the taller man’s arched form, for him to nestle his mouth up tight to Sam’s ear.

“Sam...” hips rocking, David’s dick starting a wicked rhythm up and down the seamed stitching frustratingly in the way of Sam's ass.

“unghh, what…what?”

“Sam..” teeth are scraping and there’s a hand released from Sam’s hip reaching around, delicate fingertips dragging across his nipples...oh god yes please...his chest shudders as his cock's hardwired straight to the razor sharp nubs.

Sam’s leaking in his jeans. He'd like to not be in jeans. He'd like the cock currently riding his ass to be in his ass and that wasn’t happening now why?

“yeah, yeah, just…keep…right there David. Don‘t stop moving, dude.”

Sam tries for something more intelligent but at present, he's more concerned with the strong hands flicking open his jeans, grabbing and maneuvering his junk. Speech is the last thing on his mind as soft, thick fingers pull his cock free from his boxer briefs, tugging and milking and the white noise he's hearing is new, but he can't find it in himself to worry.

“Sammy?”

It’s all Sam can formulate, a question of why there is talking and that particular name, why David can’t just - shhh, “David, don’t do that. I…,” a snag of teeth right between his neck and shoulder muscle does nothing to make Sam forget the correction. “Fuckin' hell dude, ow!”

David smiles wide against the reddened, indented skin and sits upright, slip-sliding his hands down Sam’s back, a nice sheen of sweat just starting to form and he bucks hard into the firm ass, popping the button to his own pants.

“Not sorry about the bite Sammy, although I am sorry it wasn't earlier - would've loved a little neon claim for big brother to get an eyeful.” David gauges for a reaction, waits, is totally not disappointed when Sam goes stiff against him.

Sam doesn’t care how hard his cock is at the moment, this nickname, ‘Sammy’, this mentioning Dean crap is gonna stop right now.

“David, just...don’t be a bitch. Seriously, one guy gets to call me that. You...unghh…yeah, harder around the tip...you met him, you pissed in each other’s drinks, it’s done. Oh god... twist up a little, yesss….can we not talk about Dean...little slower, oh hell yes...right now?”

"Pushy bottom aren't we?" and with that delivers a smart crack of a slap against Sam's backside.

Sam tosses the man a hardened glare from over his shoulder and David would laugh if it weren’t for the piece of lead trying to burst through his khakis. He’s just getting started in riling Sam up nice and good, just how he needs him to be. David has plans for Sam, plans he's sure he won't get to see come to fruition. Given the Winchester's reputation for a spot on record of putting bad things down, he doesn’t stand a chance in hell in coming out of this unscathed. Funny, seeing as hell is exactly where he’ll be heading when it’s all said and done.

His attention snaps back to the present, Sam sounding out frustrated little grunts concerning what David assumes is a lack of things going on with Sam's ass. He heeds to the younger man’s urges, and yes, Sam is much younger - centuries at the least - and lets his hand quicken. With the other he reaches to the nightstand, pulling out the lube and condoms. Not that the latter will matter. He's had eons of practice perfecting the nifty little trick he'll be playing tonight. The elder male isn't performing out of malice, he's honestly curious as to the outcome. Wonders what the man beneath him, groaning like such a pretty, wanton whore, will do with what David's about to reward him with.

Sam's not overly concerned with how far down his jeans go but David ... he likes to see what he's taking claim over. He grabs the waist bands of both Sam's denim and boxer briefs and tugs, impatient to get them off and still careful of the other man's sac. With another hard swat to the gorgeous cheeks on display he barks out a laugh, "You want it babe you're gonna have to help me get these off."

Sam's gone, he's pretty sure if he looked down he'd see the tip of his dick in various shades of purples and reds, and his brain is supplying him with terms only a ten-dollar slut would know. It's all he can manage to do this weird leg shift, allowing for David to yank the jeans off and throw them, god...wherever. As far as he's concerned, shredded right off his body would have been a viable option. David's next move is to get both arms around Sam's chest, lifting him up off the bed and back towards his chest.

David has his hands roving around sweat-coated steel, mapping out grooves too damn sexy to ignore and his brain can't catch up with his actions. He's learning Sam's gasps – these gorgeous, guttural sounds pushed out when he touches just a bit south of Sam's hip and draws a fingertip up his entire side. Commits to memory how in keeping one hand splayed over Sam's entire groin, and cupping .... how it makes Sam keen softly, tilt his hips and lay his head back on David's shoulder. There's so much male physique under him that David's becoming acutely aware of his own length’s neglect. He wants to tease though, wants to shatter the young hunter, keep him tucked firmly against his chest, underneath him begging, and wants to break apart with him.

David ceases the roving, allows one hand to grab hold of Sam's hair while the other he places flat against the dip of Sam's lower back and pushes. Sam's on board with this plan, falling forward, elbows out, arms and hands rested under his forehead. The position allows Sam to look between his legs - and when the hell had David gotten undressed - and sees his own shaft hanging thick and heavy, dripping a pearl of precum onto the sheets below. He waits and rocks back and forth, watching from the same angle as David reaches over to the bottle of lube and snaps open the cap. His leg muscles are jump, are itchy from sweat clinging to the hairs there, golden skin strikingly pale in comparison to David's.

David may be slightly shorter in stature but he is not lacking in muscle definition, and judging from what's been riding the seam of his cheeks, proportionate. Sam knows, hates that a good deal of prep is in order. Kinks or not, Sam doesn't go without lube, the stretching, doesn't enjoy the drag of a cock buried in him if only opened with spit or the heightened burn of too tight.

David's trying not to fall apart, hands trembling as he coats two fingers....while he doesn't plan on hurting Sam, his body's past the point of a long, slow stretch for the pucker displayed obscenely before him. Watching Sam look between his legs, he makes a show of wrapping one hand firmly around the hanging shaft, squeezing and milking again. Sam's hips stutter, "you..c'mon, c'mon...not gonna last.."

David's two well-lubed fingers in and knuckle deep, twisting and prying muscles pliant when he falls back over Sam's back, other hand stilling on Sam's dick. His mouth is pressed open against the rigid shoulder muscles beneath him, "So handsome, utterly broken, so slutty for me Sam. I want to play a little game, would you like that baby?"

Sam's breath hitches beautifully as a third finger stretches past his hole's ring of muscle, sinking to the hilt with the first two, inner walls of his ass massaged and stroked. David's hold is allowing Sam to wiggle, for now, knows how much Sam needs the other hand to just....move.

Sam's replies are whispers ghosting back, "Games? ...so good...please oh god, please, please move..." Sam's not firing on all cylinders now, his focus is narrowed down so tightly to pleasure it's almost nauseating, his abs clenched, frozen. He's fucking back onto David's hand, knowing for certain he's going to implode, it's not enough and why doesn't David know this.

David's going to slip free, fairly certain Sam's too far-gone to not hear the condom foil crinkle. He's punch drunk in love with the hitch of breath just shy of pain when he crooks his fingers on the way out of Sam's body; the nasty hiss he's rewarded when he stops the tips of his fingers dead center in the tightest knot of Sam's asshole and scissors them wide. Scraps lightly over the pink skin as he finally pulls free.

Sam's not given more than a moment of too empty before he feels David line-up. It's not that he loves pain, not that he wants to walk with a limp for the next week; it's a matter of death by blue balls if David's not in him now. Without warning, Sam rocks back, sinking David quickly past the first resistance.

David's teeth are grit together, "holy shit!" keeps his hips in lock down, afraid if he moves, he'll cum while barely inside.

"...yessss", and Sam’s thrusting back roughly since David's not with the program. Sam's letting the stretch of his ass become his entire universe; he’s never been a size queen but thinks perhaps David is going to convert him. Even with the careful prep, Sam's flooded with pain - unaccustomed, and he's more than a little overwhelmed.

David's sunk into Sam as far as he can fit, hips snugged firm against the hunter's cheeks but it's almost not enough. His grip on Sam's hips tighten as he lifts Sam's lower half closer to him, trying to nudge further but there's nowhere left to go. Sam's channel is deliciously tight, David realizing he's not going to last - too much time and preparation mixed with Sam's pheromones are zipping haywire and chaotic through every one of his nerves. The spell he'd cast earlier on that evening coursing up and into every fiber of Sam’s being, connecting him to the man under him. It cajoles him forward, keeps him snapping forward again, wondering vaguely if he could bury his balls in there as well.

"Just...oh my god, need a moment," Sam's whimpering, voice wrecked, every inch of his skin burning up, and there’s fire radiating from where he’s connected, setting up a slow burn in his belly.

David stills his thrusts long enough to allow Sam a momentary breath, pulling his length out slowly this time, canting up and rubbing the slit of his dick around the puffy hole. A moment later he's throwing his head back, lining up and there, he’s buried deep and working the young hunter viciously, relishing the grunts; awed in the way Sam's body is being shoved, thrust by thrust, up the bed. David's working on a short leash here and simpers, "Sam," the name a prayer to the universe, "thank you...can give you this. Give you both," a communion to the core of the Earth.

Sam doesn't register, can’t compute what David's chanting - reciting, whatever, the sense of pleasure has him quivering and he's right there on the edge. There's a haze, he's enveloped in ethereal light but the edges are so damn blurry, a fire in his belly growing brighter as his dick pulses, no release even as each slam forward gives friction against the top sheet.

Groggy, that's the word, and he's slurring slightly, "David, what? unggh...please please please," doesn't even know what he's begging for. David's rhythm is brutal, pushing Sam up off his arms while he literally falls forward towards the headboard. The bed shakes beneath them, rocking from the thrusts, from Sam's body vibrating.

David hears Sam's begging, braces one arm around him as he leans over Sam's back - flush. Takes his other hand and grasps onto Sam's dick, slick with sweat and precum, enough to allow him to start stroking in time to his erratic movements. He's chasing the end for both of them, making another adjustment in tightness around Sam's dick when everything spins out of control.

And so it is, as Sam's body locks tight, crippled by the blinding force of his orgasm as David cries out in unison, when Sam faintly registers heat, slick and wet, flow deep in him. And the fire in his belly explodes, a supernova behind his eyes and beneath his abs. And so it is, the elder witch grabs hold of the younger Winchester's body in support, keeps the younger male pinned to his chest as he rolls them to their side, whispering incantations of protection and prayers of forgiveness; Sam's body quaking from the ritual's completion, unconscious and unknowing. David's whispers turning through Sam's quiet mind, giving him peace - unlocking Sam's body down to his very DNA.

Whispers.

Soothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is done and he’s singing this for emphasis. It’s a jaunty little tune he’s been tossing around in his head since, oh, sun o’clock this a.m. Not enough 80’s heavy metal in this world could replace such a happy little ditty. He is currently toting two coffees, four donuts, and some new veggie egg white with cheese thing for Sleeping Beauty back at the motel, the damn thing stinking up his baby.

Dean’s pissed, grimacing, hiking his sunglasses higher up his nose, the smell akin to a hen passing gas after eating roasted peppers, and then slapped some burnt cheese on top for fun. Dean’s humming the done song of doom, slurping down his bitter coffee and keeping an eye out for places to pull over in case the smell of Sam’s veggie bomb overwhelms and he has to hork. Can’t sully his girl now can he?

He's parked outside the room now, still humming an obnoxious version of his new song, ‘Doom, Super Doom, and Mega Doom’. This will soon be sung, aloud thank you, to the bitch formerly known as Sam, because it truly is Sam’s new theme song. Dean’s now providing intermission as he stalls outside the motel door, pausing by the way of ‘please universe that so likes to shaft me hard, for once, let the shafting be soft…cuddly even.’ He is doing so as, at present, Sam - the princess of all things grumpy and gassy, has been PMSing for the last two months.

Yeah, that's a mighty sexist statement, even for Dean, but people just had no freaking idea.

He’s endured two months of Sam waking up every morning to puke his guts out then glaring at Dean like he had spiked his tofu…sh'yeah as if.

He thumps his head against the doorframe, ‘Ok, there was that one time, but really?’

And the gas is, whoa; Sammy’s never been a lightweight when it comes to bodily expulsions but these last few weeks have been a whole special kind of methane nuclear. Dean’s been convinced on more than one occasion that Sam had melted a hole right in his baby’s leather.

Adding to these indignities, his personal favorite, the belly trauma. He’d been teasing ‘our lady of unholy mood swings’ right up until two days ago, ending abruptly after the incident, forever known now as ‘the day Dean learned how truly small Sam’s sense of humor is’. Sam’s retribution to Dean’s barbs involved a nightmarish trick involving a pickled pig’s foot, Dean’s toothbrush, and a much beloved concert t-shirt. Things didn’t end to well that day for either of them.

He can admit it; he’s had a good time of watching, poking, tackling a few times, and then rubbing Sam’s new belly; all that washboard musculature, now with a healthy helping of marshmallow fluff. He‘s even snuck some casual touches while Sam‘s been sleeping. So okay, the curve is his new addiction.

And now that Dean’s aware of how pervy he’s acting on his brother, he’s even less inclined to open the motel door.  
He’s been worried about Sam sure, what with the behavior, the new physique, constant sickness, exhaustion that never goes away. Sam hasn’t slept so much since he was fifteen. It took a lot of energy to sprout all that hair, those limbs and a shiny new libido. And Sam’s libido now, yet another problem Dean can tally up, seeing no indication of hands-on relief in Sam’s case and Dean knows the guy hasn’t had anyone in his bed since New York. After the night of Sam’s big, free love reveal that had Dean laughing into his beers for days.

Come to think of it, adding up all the things his brother’s suffering from, if Sam really were a Samantha, Dean would be carting his sibling off to the nearest town clinic ASAP. But Sam’s not pregnant because he’s a guy, and that’s the stuff off some housewife’s fantasy journal, not something real that would happen to him or his brother.

Because they don’t get involved with things that are weird.

Ever.

They lead normal lives what with living out of motels….hunting the kinds of creatures seen in nightmares...drinking demon blood….restarting epic battles between heaven and hell.

Dean feels sick, knows he’s gone ghostly pale, the half a donut he’s eating falls out, mostly because he’s too stunned to close his mouth. The key to the room is in the lock, shaking, mostly due to the tremors wracking his frame.

No. Fucking. Way.

And as the door to the room swings wide, Dean steps across the salt line to the tune of ’Mega Doom’ right as Sam emerges from the bathroom, the kid’s body hunched in on itself. Dean’s formed superhero laser eyes because all he can see is the stick Sam’s holding in a vice grip, white and recognizable to any guy who’s ever had a scare – with a girl. He trains these new weapons up towards his brother’s face, precisely narrowing down to Sam’s red-rimmed eyes and pink stained cheeks.

And just, No. Fucking. Way.

A choked sound comes from Sam, “Dean.”

Dean chokes out in kind, “Holy Shit.”

**********

August 26th 0845 Upstate New York

The light filtering in through the motel window should not be worming its way through his eyelids. There’s ample blanket to curl up into so there shouldn't be any worries. There’s no one side or the other on his bed he prefers because Sam has conquered the whole of it. He’s just so damn comfortable. It’s in this vein that Sam goes to stretch from tip to toe. It’s in the start of this stretch that Sam is fairly certain his whole body is marked black and blue.

His gasp echoes throughout the room and he curls back into himself as his face burrows into the pillow closest him. Sam’s not big on sniffing anything found in the motels they stay in but a clean, nondescript scent welcomes him and that can’t be a bad start right?

A few hours later Dean wakes him up with Journey blaring on the radio, claiming he has officially found the pie that birthed all other pie recipes.

“Swear to god Sam, the waitress was blonde, 5’10 and stacked and even she didn’t stand a chance next to the homemade apple pie.”

Sam is too sleep fogged - could toss in post-sex bliss as well - to do more than huff out a laugh. All he needs now is to pee and to make that happen, he's got to get out of bed, which sucks royally. One foot lands on the floor, and as Dean plops his butt on the edge of his own bed, Sam manages to hoist the rest of his body up and off.

There's the nakedness but he knows Dean doesn't give a damn on whether Sam’s junk is swinging so he moves, limps ungainly towards the bathroom. An odd feeling washes over him and he turns, catches sight of Dean fixating on the nightstand by Sam’s bed, his big brother’s face pinched. Immediately aware, concerned, he spins, sees there's a half-empty bottle of lube right by the lamp and a roll of condoms next to the motel phone.

A small roll of unopened foil packets, condoms sitting there, mocking him.

The effect is immediate, Sam spitting out, “Son of a bitch!”

He'd no reason, he can’t, his body heaves in anger because he'd seen the condoms come out of the drawer and well, he’s not leaking and cum sticky. David must have cleaned him up and great, just fucking great. That lying piece of ... he stops that tirade because Sam's a firm believer in personal responsibility after all the shit he's put Dean through, realizes he's a stupid moron – tricked - who needs to be tested immediately.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dean, fists white with tension, legs spread and angrier than Sam’s seen in over a year, Dean is staring at the condoms and then focusing on Sam’s bare ass.

Dean's voice isn't much louder than a whisper, when he grinds out, “You stupid sonuvabitch. Damn it, Sam.”

There’s a hot shower waiting and Sam is too mortified, bone-deep exhaustion keeping him from a knockdown, drag-out fight. “Yeah. Yeah I am Dean.”

 

September 16th 0545

There’s a waterfall right next to the cabana Sam’s lounging in and instead of relaxing, all he can think of is the ache in his groin, the fish he ate at the bonfire last night. There’s pixie dust glittering off the mountainside and there’s no doubt the pixies are mocking his thirst when they flitter by, pouring fresh lemonade into chilled tumblers. The sound of the liquid reverberates around him as it sloshes and splashes….

Sam’s eyes fly open as his bladder screams at him to get the hell up now. What’s not ok with this scenario is the way in which his stomach protests, churns and quite possibly bucks. Now, at the ass crack of dawn, Sam has to make a ridiculous executive decision - pee or puke first.

Pee, oh god pee because if Sam pukes he’s going to be standing in an inch deep puddle of piss. Wait, his mind tries to fix the situation as he scrambles for the hotel’s grimy bathroom, use the wastebasket. He has a split second to think ‘bastards, of course there's no wastebasket’, before he urinates, shakes, flushes and is vomiting no sooner than when the bowl fills.

Two minutes later, he lays his head gently on the side of the tub in perfect proximity to the toilet; wants the smallest amount of movement for what is most definitely going to be round two. Sam can hear the faint shuffle of sheets as Dean wakes, groans, then belches, gives the semblance of something normal.

With another groan, Dean calls out. “Sammy?”

"Unnn", Sam’s smells vile, his chest is sore and his throat hurts from stomach acid, “here,” he clears some phlegm, “in here Dean.”

The padding indicates an approach, and the following quiet must mean Dean’s taking in the sight. “Gross, dude, what’d you eat? Can't hold your beers now Samantha?” The scuffle of feet across the room’s threadbare carpet, sound of a duffle being rummaged through and Dean comes back, “I’ll go out, greasy food’ll do you some good, Jesus, didn’t know you drank that much.”

September 30th 2241

Sam is getting ready to turn in, the shower washing away another night’s worth of grave dirt mixed with the stink of horking up the day’s lunch special. His stomach issues have only increased and he’s been surprised by the gentle manner in which Dean treats him. Logically, he knows Dean does this because puking is on a secret top ten list of horrors Dean cannot deal with. Sam now knows the feeling, used to empathize and daydreams of the good ol’ days when not all his meals were greeting him twice.

He’s just pulled a fresh t-shirt on, beyond thrilled to climb into bed, when the itching starts. He’s been feeling a sort of pulling in his chest along with …fullness for the past two weeks, able to ignore the sensation. Sam’s not sure of anything his body is doing lately, he’s been one constant thrum of aches and pains, so what’s a little itching?

 

September 30th 2314

There’s darkness under Sam’s covers where he can pretend to separate from his symptoms, rare disease, STD or whatever that David’s given him, despite all tests being negative. He’s scratching and pulling across his chest and somewhere along the way, his hips and abs started up. Apparently, his body parts have jealousy issues, and he yells out, rips his shirt off and scratches against tight, hot skin. Dean rolls over, hand on the weapon beneath his pillow, groggily bleats out an, “y’kay, Sam…what’s wrong.”  
Sam would like to know as well.

October 1st 0714

“Dean please leave me alone; don’t make me have to hurt you.”

... (blink)...Dean snorts but doesn't joke about it. He's more concerned with Sam's skin condition, thinks maybe the guy got bit by bed bugs considering the shit places they sleep in.

“C’mon Sam, you’ve scratched so hard there's marks. I’ve got the lotion, just let me…” and with that, Dean sits up and laughs. Sam’s not amused, doesn’t need any jokes via horror movies to make him see red.

“Dean, so help me god,” his teeth are ground together, “you make one move towards my stomach, I will cut you.”

… (blink)…

… (bitchface back at ya big bro)…

October 14th 1137

They are heading northeast, again, which requires hours of sitting - again. Sam hates this fucking life. He hates diners with their crappy Greek salads, hates hot weather spikes during a perfectly good crisp, fall day, and locals who can’t shut up about the weather. Sam can’t stand people who don’t turn their stereos down at stoplights and he especially despises non-turn signal using drivers.

Sam also hates the veggie taco he had earlier and feels the need, mucus slicking his throat, to bring it up so he waves frantically to Dean. Dean cuts his eyes over to him in confusion, not sure what flappy hands have to do with anything until he sees Sam's face turn ashen and just no fucking way.

“Oh hell NO, Sam…Not in baby girl!”

Sam really doesn't want to puke but the bile's rising, and he knows Dean's not going to make it to the side of the road before he blows. He's mentally preparing himself to throw up on the floorboards of Dean’s life partner and instead - simultaneously belches and passes gas.

Loudly.

The brothers stare slack jawed at each other for a few seconds, Dean trying desperately not to laugh and set the younger Winchester off again. That is until the very next second, when the smell happens. Now, now Sam has to puke…his ass has actually caused him to become ill. Dean is so offended he’s threatening Sam with auto terms such as, “replacement leather for the seats,” only Sam can’t remember, because a second bubble cords through his intestines and the next moment even clinching can’t stop the gas.

Sam finds he has a new puking buddy on the side of the deserted country road.

October 22nd 1833

Sam is sick of Dean - sick of him. His brother won’t stop rubbing his belly. Yep, for some reason he’s acquired a teeny, tiny gut and Dean is obsessed. They’re not talking at the moment because Dean’s still hurt over the “incident” but Sam had warned him. Sam was sick, he was tired, he was stinky, and he couldn’t stand the feel of fabric against his nipples, the material rubbing them raw. He’s realized that he probably is dying. It’s karmic, it’s awful. It’s Dean hovering and never leaving his side.

October 24th 0420

Sam’s using up all the hot water in the shower, soaping up his balls when he discovers - something there that wasn’t before. While he's not the brightest bulb in the universe, brilliant maybe but he digresses, he does know anatomy, specifically his, and it goes dick, balls, taint, and hole. What he feels, upon further inspection and a soon-to-be panic attack, is dick, balls, small opening, taint, hole.

He’s so distressed he gets out the shower and heads straight for bed. He’d dried himself, a swift towel-off, but otherwise he’s wet and naked beneath the sheets. Dean’s up in a second, hovering, and Sam doesn’t even know what this fuckery is. He’s dying and growing holes in very important places and can’t even discuss it all, let alone research.

October 25th 0600

The cashier at the local pharmacy is super friendly for it being so early and Sam wants to smack her in her perfect little face. The moment he hands over the box of off brand pregnancy tests she ews and ahs, rattling off about lucky girls or something. Sam can’t focus on what she’s saying, the situation too bizarre, hands over the cash and furrows his brows, upset. He wants Dean, can’t believe this shit and honest to god, he’s scared.

It’d taken a full night of insomnia to sort through all the symptoms, knowing since the beginning what was wrong. How blind he’d been to trust a person to share his bed, his proclivity to attract monsters. He visited Web M.d., coming up with the same results, charted the days and had remembered the night with David.

Paranormal, of course he's been cursed, Christ, and how sad was that, that this was even an option in his mind.

 

October 26th 0735

The Impala’s engine starting up had been Sam’s clue it was safe; safe to venture out of bed and immediately pass gas without bowling his brother over. Comfortable enough to slip his hands under the waistband of his boxers and massage his tiny bump - about that, he was actually looking forward to telling Dean that the bump he’d been prodding was actually just bloating at this point.

Sam thought he’d have more time but his morning rituals were completely screwed and the moment he’d finished pissing on both sticks, a free one and oh the joy, the Impala’s engine rumbled outside.

Ok, he was going to pass out, the positive sign so surreal he just, he didn’t even know what to do.

October 26th 0810

What does he do? Sam can’t think, rucks his t-shirt to scratch against an aching nipple, and the blur through glazed eyes isn’t helping him feel secure.

What does he do? Sam clenches onto one of the tests, standing up from the floor - dizzy and numb left him weak kneed - hearing Dean jiggle the handle to the motel door.

He staggers out of the bathroom, falters as Dean flings the door open, paler than he’s ever seen, spooked.

Sam chokes up, utters desperately, “Dean”

Dean steps over the salt line, zeroing in on the pregnancy test first and then onto his brother’s face.

“Holy Shit.”

**********

It should be easy to move forward, should be natural for two seasoned hunters to simply move. But there’s an electrical current in the air, crackling and hair-trigger dangerous. It should be easy - it’s not. Each man is stuck in place, a live charge around them keeping them rooted to their spots. The door needs to be shut, no problem, that’s only an issue of stepping back and hey, it doesn’t require thinking. Dean can get on board with that.

Dean takes a quick step back without explaining and Sam’s breathe quickens, his eyes snapping closed. He's struck once again, wondering how it is that a man as large as Sammy can effect emotions so subtly. And as the door sweeps back and slams, he knows that Sam won’t open his eyes - knows his brother's fear of Dean not being there if he looks. He knows, because he’s opened his eyes countless times onto stagnant space, space his kid brother should have occupied.

The distance between them feels miles apart, it’s too far and Dean’s going to go down if he doesn’t move forward. There are issues so fucking enormous – if he obsesses over them he won’t follow through the motions - one foot in front of the other.

Sam’s eyes feel like grit and glass beneath the lids. Once the door shut, he wouldn’t do this, carry this burden without the person he needed most stepping away. His heart sinks, let distrust come rushing back into his body because Dean knew and he went backwards, had enough of his bullshit and moved on.

“Sam.” Nothing but silence.

“Sam.” At least this time there was a response, even if minimal.

“Dean.” It was croaked out, exhausted, and utterly pathetic. And it spoke entirely of how desperate this situation could become if Sam didn’t have some proper support.

“Dean, I don’t know what…I really need to sit down and think things through here. Like, its….um, I know I’m gonna kill him,” he’s doing that hitched laugh thing but Dean knows its tears from here on out, “and I’m pretty sure I’ll need your help to do that.” Dean’s chest is hurting, probably strained himself getting out of bed so early. It’s acting up pretty awful and one hand goes to massage the area, rubbing viciously as he listens to Sam’s pleas.

Hunting, even in its base nightmarish reality, is a fairly simple concept compared to this mess of a mind-fuck some supernatural one night stand thought was a good idea. The bed’s so close; god, he could just curl up and be a big baby – and even he knows this is not the time for bad puns – but his feet have made a decision. His brain is in cahoots with his feet, as well as his mouth now apparently, because he’s not only briskly walking the short distance to Sam, making these stupid “shhh” sounds as if Sam were some sort of feral stray.

“Sammy, it’s all right, we’re gonna figure this out. We’re, I don’t know man…this is like…this is the Chernobyl mind melt of weird shit,” Dean stopped to let out a huge breath, to release the horror slinking through his system, “We’ll call Bobby, sit down, and figure this out.”

Sam slowly opened his eyes, stared dumbfounded because Dean hadn’t left – of course not, that’s his gig - and he was staying.

Dean snorted out a quick huff of laughter, “Okay, Sammy. Okay.”

He scrubs his face, calloused hands catching over the day’s worth of stubble, stopping to scritch the back of his neck.

“So ... so we sit. We get on the phone and get Bobby’s help, this is….” And Dean’s done with being done. It’s time to get up on this, enough of the man soap opera. Sam’s got enough freaking out for the both of ‘em.

And just like that, Dean’s got an armful of Sam.

“Dude, we’re like the poster guys for all the backwoods taboo stories dad ever told us so c’mon man, this’ll be awesome, just…okay?”

Sam makes a garbled hiccup sob and shakes his head, lets the teasing take root and keep him company.

**********

Rituals and routines; habits and mannerisms; comfort food and research - these are what make some people tick. Such as Sam’s gravitational pull towards his laptop and if he’s lucky, towards the comfiest seat in the room - pregnant or not.

Considering how his mid-section feels at this moment, relaxation is fast becoming a priority.

There’s a whir of electricity as Sam starts the laptop, the bed opposite his giving a creak as Dean gets up and crosses over to their kitchenette. Actually just a micro-fridge in the same shade as the armchair Sam’s resting in, still good enough to hold a six-pack. There’s always been a ritualistic manner in which the brother’s handled stress. When they were younger, it was racing to see who could get the comfiest seating in the room, the bed with the least amount of stained covers, the seat next to dad in the diner.

As they grew, it was sparring in the back lot of a motel, seeing who could skim through the local grocer’s fruit stands to pick out the funkiest of the fruits. Prank wars were a constant, never getting old. After Stanford and back out on the road, the forgotten habits returned with a vengeance, as in now. Dean fidgeting ‘til he got his hand on a beer. Sam going to his computer, readying a document.

There was a familiar metallic pop of a cap, liquid sloshing and the sound of Dean’s belch rounded off the normalcy.

Waiting for a word doc. to open, Sam looks up to see Dean catch some air and bounce twice after his ass hits the middle of the bed. “Nice. How’s the beer?”

There’s a garumph noise, mortified really. “Please, like I’mma let this go to waste. But uh, it’s cold..” his eyes are sparking with humor, “…and I could give a play by play if you need.”

Sam shifts, it’s not something he’s been thinking about until right this moment. Even with the nausea kicking in he’s imbibed in a few six packs with Dean. Well, fuck. What does that mean? Sam’s fingers pick up a staccato rhythm against the side of the chair, “Thanks but no Dean, no telling what sort of porn dialogue you’ve made up for the stuff.”

“Awww, Sammy…no need for that.” Pouty lips, works every time. “Ok, enough. You got your title centered and fingers ready?”  
There’s no response, Sam’s eyes closed as his face is two shades lighter green than the chair. “Yeah, need a sec but yeah.” He opens his eyes and nods.

“First off, your guy. I know he’s not 'your' guy but I’m talking about him being the baby dad. The other one. Damn, this is weird.”

“You think?” Sam looks incredulous and the bitch of it is, Dean wasn’t even trying to be an ass. He’s suddenly remembering the previous weeks of scary mood swings and thinking of months more to come and it leaves him tight lipped and wide eyed.

Sam huffs, “You’re right Dean and stop staring like that. You’ve got this lemur thing going and it’s freakin’ me out.”

They make some head way and its surprisingly comfortable talking specifics about finding David. They were in the area that weekend to take out a vampire nest but the past hunt from the same town kept coming up. A coven gone demon dark side performing some nasty rituals that left many of the town’s children either missing – dead – or maimed – vegetative state - hospital records indicated.

“So we’re thinking witch, possibly but probably not demon and that leaves us what? Maybe we missed a member of that coven.”

Dean’s shaking his head in disagreement; he’d been personally contacted by two Wiccan high priests well known throughout the local valley, both extremely concerned with the coven’s practices. Dean and Sam knew things were off the charts when witches were calling hunters for help. The high priests made it perfectly clear that if the hunter’s chose to do nothing then the universe would see fit to take care of the rogue members however long in the future it might be. Dean had assured them that he and Sam were the universe’s solution and in agreement, the wiccans worked quickly to piece meal a ritual and spell to wipe out the problem.

“We’ve royally screwed up before but dude, that spell lit up the parking lot like a fireworks display. Every black magics creeper within a fifty-mile radius got nuked or bound that night. And we accounted for every single member of the coven, David’s name, someone with that face, Sam…he wasn’t part of that mess. I don’t know, unless David was working with some Terminator type mojo, …”

“Like say, what, Dean? He wasn’t one of the bad guys, the monsters we stir up on a regular basis? I’m pregnant dude. The guy changed my DNA so the power he was working with, there’s just no way, no way.” And could he not do this without crying please? It’s like a switch flipped and he had no control over his emotions.

“You think it’s demon related then? Clue me in Scarlett.”

“Most covens that fall in with demons, from what dad and a few other hunters have gathered, they sort of fall into the deal. Power trips being offered are too hard to resist. You might find a few inspirational groups, the pre and present day neopaganists who know who they’ve struck a deal with or rather, won’t. We already know the age thing can be gone around, maybe that’s what this group was. It’s not small news about Azazel’s plans, easy to pick up where he left off, except change the strategy. He could’ve just tapped into the magics they were using, finished the plan all for himself.”

“Sam, I’m not dissing this…”

“Here we go, right Dean. I’m wrong how?”

“Hey! Listen up princess, you’re the mad genius sure, but I’ve done my research too. You know as well as I do the differences: white witches, cunning folk, shaman. I could go on, but that spell we did, Bobby and others gave the back issue version, man, and that shit is still binding up anything bad witchy hinky. Believe me, I’m not defending the fucker because I want you to both make a lot of babies and ride off into the sunset. It just doesn’t add up, that’s all. And anyhow, there’s more we need to look at.” Dean’s suddenly flushed a tinge of red and this makes Sam’s nerves stand on edge.

“Ask away then. I’m ready.”

“You seem set on him being a witch with nasty connections, any other reasons? He do or say anything when you guys were getting your guy sexing on?” Sam’s watching Dean’s face go from amused to possibly pissed in a matter of seconds. Weird. “Anything you remember?”

Sam’s got his weird look too but it’s more from needing crackers. The stress of going over this night keeps building up and it’s not doing a darn bit of good for his stomach.

“I was groggy, that much I know. He talked a little but that’s no big deal. Until….the actual sex and then it sounded more like chanting. Or praying. Wait, wait, doesn’t make sense. It was definitely that last – praying.” He blanches and sprawls his legs wide open, balancing the laptop on top of the chest of drawers and leans forward to mentally cursing all reproductive functions. This being constantly sick business is fucking stupid.

Dean’s too stuck, the worst of it the violation, the supernatural beat downs that always seemed to follow them around. Sam’s finished talking but Dean’s furious right now, wants to get the show started. And he never planned for the sideswipe, almost knocking him short of breath.

“I did the count back, it’s into two months now…I’m running out of time.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that most dramatically veers off between versions, so if one is following along with both, here be the change. This version is completely unedited and I've been compiling and making many a change from when it was originally posted to LiveJournal. My apologies for poor grammar, misspellings despite my spellcheck's best efforts. Thank you, as always, for reading.

It all came down to an ethical decision, one that needed to made in the very near future. It wasn’t discussed any further that day either, no need to go over something out of their control until David could be found. There was a mutual understanding that until they knew what was growing inside of Sam, how it was growing in him, and whether Sam could survive - termination would have to be an option; those would be the ultimate deciding factors.

The following days found them packing up the Impala and heading east to small suburb in Iowa towards another case. Interviews and further research found them involved with an ancient tome fallen into a child’s hands. Luckily the subsequent wreaking of havoc on the local wildlife ended with no bruises, stitches, or broken bones. Major score for the Winchesters.

Not so much for one little 6 year old, a kid fascinated with the cool pictures in the leather bound (wasn’t leather, mom) fairytale book.

“You scared the crap out of him, Sam!” Dean was yelling, huffing from adrenaline and concern over the wailing child.

“You told me we had to get in the kids room now, so yeah, I kicked the door in.” Sam was indignant, breathing heavily from the used energy, in short supply these days, and from concern over the screaming child causing the police to show up. With the child, he was concerned, but cases with children sidetracked Dean and someone had to keep a firm grip of reality on the situation.

After making sure the child was safe with a neighbor, what amounted to tossing the kid through the other home’s front door, the hunters drove through the suburb slowly, not wanting to bring themselves any further attention. Once on the interstate, Dean floored it, engine revving, both men settling in for a monotonous drive going two states over.

“We have to call Bobby, you know that, yeah?” Dean searched his pocket for his cell, punched speed dial before Sam could offer up protests.

Two exits later and Bobby was firing off questions left and right, keeping his opinions to himself and that in itself was worrisome.

The call went south quickly, the embarrassment of having to hear Dean explain, in detail, his predicament leaving Sam to hyperventilate, soak his shirt with perspiration.

“He's puking morning, noon, and night, Bobby. He can’t keep anything down but bland baked potatoes. Just hold on sec,” removing the cell from his ear, Dean fished around the mess on the floorboard, managing to pull out a fast food paper bag and throwing it towards his brother, “okay, right! Uh, so the picky eating, yeah…that’s just Samantha. Hah. But then there’s the throwing up and that’s not the half of it.”

There was talk of how Sam looked and questions answered concerning how they were getting past the civilians.

“Honestly, no one would ever suspect a thing, given he’s only 10 weeks, man, but I can tell. Little thicker around the middle”

Exits flying by, rest areas closed, Dean kept on answering, “Yeah, Bobby, sure, I'd just walk into some clinic with my pregnant brother. I’d end up in the nut house and Sam could wind up in some government experiment.”

There was a pause on Bobby’s end of the call, quiet enough to hear static, and then Bobby was laughing.

Hard, to Sam’s ears – unmerciful. Dean understood the humor, god knows he did, but the giant in his passenger seat, look of determination on his face and contempt for Bobby’s attitude, it kept Dean in check.

Hysterical laughing.

“All right, all right, tell the boy to stop gettin’ his panties in a bunch, I can hear him wheezing through the damn phone. Now you listen to me,” Dean’s nodding, as if their old friend can see him, “you gotta get him checked out pronto, Dean. I can pull some strings; got a contact out on the east coast that owes me pretty big from when I cleared out some nasty stuff for her mother.”

Adding more people to the mix was an idea that scared the hell out of Dean, but he shook his head yes again, no other logical choice than to accept Bobby’s assistance.

“So this contact Bobby, we looking at a doc or some back alley hack?” Sam didn’t budge a muscle, strained to hear what the old man was saying.

“She’s a general practitioner, not an OB like Sam really needs,” they can hear Bobby mutter and cuss at that, “but with the mess you boys have landed yourself in it’s gonna have to do. Her office is right north of Albany up on I-87. And you boys treat this lady right like you shoulda been taught, she ain’t no hack and she knows when to keep quiet.”

Sam’s watching Dean sweat bullets with this phone call and has only just calmed himself when Dean hands the cell over. “Says he wants a word with you.” Dean’s not looking at him, keeps his eyes on the interstate.

Sam takes the phone, stares blankly out the window. “Hey Bobby,” he lets out a short huff of nervous laughter, “yeah, yes sir, I’ve been better. What's that? It’s been, umm, ten weeks along so if this doctor does have an ultrasound machine the only thing we’ll see is a spot and the heart beating.” Sam hears a quick intake of air and looks over to Dean, face still blank.

Sam will explain everything once he’s off the phone, “Yeah, we are cutting it short on time, I didn’t think. Right, hell yeah I want it reversed but I’m not discounting how off this could play out once we find David. Yeah, yes sir, that‘s his name. No kidding, hey Bobby, I appreciate you doing the research. Yeah, all right.” With that, Sam flips the phone closed.

It’s always been a watermark with the brothers, getting from point A to B as efficiently and quickly as possible, ingrained in their lives as hunting. Stops along the way were often times luxuries, John Winchester a firm believer in the many uses of a soda can or a water bottle in relation to long car rides. He would rather get to the next case, give the boys grief, with a road weary smile of course, if they complained.

It’s with a grimace and a squirm then that Sam is getting ready to pour out his Aspen water bottle and get some much-needed relief. He forgot to ask Dean to pull off at the last rest area and he knows it’s at least another ten minutes until the next exit. He decides he’s had enough somber mood, can’t take the strain and figures it’s about time to rile his brother up some. Sam makes a big production of unzipping his jeans so that Dean glances his way.

Sam hangs on to the dashboard, holds back a smile as Dean bitches about uncouth younger brothers and yanks the car over to side of the road.

The collar of Sam’s jacket is yanked sideways as Dean makes to smack him on the back of his head, blowing out, “Listen up zippy, I don’t care what dad thought was status pro quo, unless there’s a serious emergency there’s no pissing in the Impala. Damn it, Sam. Pregnancy fry your brain?”

The small distraction works and if Sam’s bladder weren’t screaming at him, he’d be laughing his ass off at Dean pitching a fit and kicking gravel. Sam thinks his own giddiness over the situation might be some weird after effect of his butt no longer being numb from sitting in the car so long. After relieving himself, he grabs his stash of hand sanitizer from the glove compartment and sidles up to the Impala’s hood where Dean’s sitting. Dean gives the small bottle an once-over and rolls his eyes.

“Dean.”

Dean mimics the somber tone in mockery, "Sam."

It’s quiet where they’ve pulled off, a ways behind the highway tree line, the pines affording enough privacy to kick back, converse and totally desecrate Dean’s enjoyment of the open air and sunshine.

“Dean, seriously…”

“Now? I don’t want to discuss a single thing, Sam. I want to sit here and I don’t know, ponder why ancient civilizations didn’t carve out more boobs to worship, anything but reality. This is me asking, no, begging you, Sammy. Drop it for now.”

A small crow is picking at carrion a few feet away, Sam’s gut churning at the sight when he answers, “You want to know what I’ve been writing in that mission doc., trying to organize?” He doesn’t want to drop the subject, it’s eating at him and has to get it out despite Dean’s protests, “ I know you’ve been turning over what I’d said back in the hotel, back when we first found out, and I gotta really hand it to you, Dean, you’ve taken to the situation remarkably well.”

Dean’s on the hood, laying back against the windshield, soaking in the radiant heat, sunglasses on but there’s no mistaking the corners of his mouth quirking up, “Hero worship, Sammy, it'll getcha extra donuts every time." He gradually turns his head towards Sam, makes annoyingly weird kissy faces.

"I’m guessing you want to hug? Excellent, it’ll give me another chance to make fun of the bump.” Dean looks skyward, puffs of white barely inching along, and pats the empty space next to him.

Sam makes a sound of amusement at his brother’s familiar ornery ways, wastes no time sliding up the hood, bumps his shoulders to Dean’s, lets his eyes close. The sun is warm in this spot, orange and red flares behind his eyelids, “Yeah, about that Dean,”

“Mm, we’re still talking, of course. About the bump?”

There’s a pfft before Sam’s response, “Yeah, the bump. You do realize that I’m just bloated right now, right? You’re more or less helping me pass gas every time you press me there.” There’s difficulty in trying not to fall out laughing, as he physically sense Dean’s expression turning grim, thinking that one over.

“If we're talking along the lines of how a woman's pregnancy would go, it will be a week or two before I start to show, roundness the normal human eye can see and not with freaky big brother vision. But that’s not…that’s not what this is about. This,” awkwardly, he reaches down to pull his t-shirt up an inch or so, trembles slightly and rubs gently over his lower abs, right between his hips, “it’s about this.”

Dean’s eyes snap open behind the lenses, sick with hate for the man that did this to his brother. He’s determined to do this, angles his head down, watching the soft circles Sam’s fingertips draw on his stomach.

“It’s, you remember don’t you, not like I want to deliberately dredge up difficult memories, but this, this is putting it right back in the spotlight.” There’s a grunt of disapproval to his side and Sam knows Dean’s on his way to good and frustrated.

“You know better than anyone, Dean, how I feel about our childhoods,” he takes a moment, clears his throat, “So what? I bring another thing into this way of life, despite all that? Which you know, how do two hunters raise it?" There's so much more to say, chewing over what needs to be discussed.

"We’re gonna go to this doctor friend of Bobby’s and find out how the hell this,” he pauses the rubbing, keeps his hand flat, and he’s as stunned as Dean looks when his entire palm spans what is only a slight bubble with how he’s lying flat, “…how this is being supported. I have to know if my body, if what he’s done to me is considered viable or if there’s a block of cells hanging out in my intestines."

"Then, when we track and hunt the piece of scum down, I have to know that it’s not some demonic,” coughing on the words, Sam chokes up, lowering his t-shirt, “I have to know that what I’m carrying won’t be another in a long line of mistakes.”

The sound of the highway is mixing with the rush of blood in his ears and it’s making Dean woozy, makes it so he can’t think properly. He’s got it in his head, Sam’s an idiot because his brother's done some stupid fucking things in his life, but being a mistake is not one of them.

“Get up.” Hardened hands grab hold of Sam’s biceps and start to maneuver him upwards.

“What the….”

“C’mon, get up. You’ve done your roadside relief, you’ve moaned like the little bitch you are, so now I’m thinking against my will – out of my happy place, Sam – and it’s my turn. Thanks.” There's dried grass, gravel, and shiny bits of broken glass crunching under Sam’s feet as he’s literally manhandled into the car in under five seconds flat. The Impala’s door slams as he’s plain trying to get his bearings straight, not pass out from the whoosh of being moved so quickly, when Dean slides in the other side, turns the ignition.

Dean’s got her pointed east, pedal down hard when he finally speaks up, “For someone with street cred, college brains, you’re a raging moron. I’ll say it once because more than that and my sac will shrivel up and I’ll be as neutered as you are, you’re not worthless and I won’t have you talking about my kid brother like that ever. C’mon, man, I refuse to think that “it” you’re carrying is demonic. Can’t be, Sam, karma owes us and we’ll find a reversal and it’s a moot subject.” A space, a pause to give Sam a few minutes to catch up.

“Great. Now that that’s settled we’ve got another couple hours ahead of us and we’re not stopping until we’ve reached that doctor and Bobby calls with a fix-it-all better. Pee breaks, puking pit stops a given, though. Got it princess?”

With a fingertip rubbing against the dashboard, swirling absentmindedly, Sam knows he could speak up, verbally lay his brother out, and has all the jabs and fight in him to win. Instead, he freaks out momentarily, has no clue why he grabs Dean’s hand, placing it firmly across his puffy mid-section.

Dean may be talking reversals, but the smile that cuts up the corners of his mouth spell differently.

**********

Dr. Rihanna Jones had just toed off her shoes, foot gently pushing to shoo away the small, black Angora kitten circling her ankles, when her cell phone went off. The private cell, the one no one at the office knew of, and she jumped at the ridiculous ring tone her daughter had recently uploaded.

Halloween had been a day away when the teen had rolled her eyes and teased out, “Mom, don’t be so old! You’re too young, have fun…Michael Meyers wants you to have fun. Besides,” and the teen kept teasing, opening cabinets and the freezer in the hunt for snacks, “Aunt Jess said you and she used to watch all that scary stuff together.”

The fourteen year old had run, squealing obnoxiously when Rihanna turned the kitchen sink spray on her.

She thought it an omen really, listening to the Halloween movie theme as she padded over to see who was calling at this late an hour. Tamara, her live-in personal aide – nanny at times, had given her the nightly run-down of all that transpired around the home and school for the day. Both teens were upstairs sleeping - 14 and 13 year old sisters attached at the hip. Tamara was holed up in the bedroom across from the living room so Rihanna could account for everyone with the particular number.

Oh.

Smiling softly, hoping it carried over with her greeting, “Hello Bobby.”

Bobby’s voice came in clear as bell, grizzled, twangy and with the utmost respect to whom he was speaking. “Hello Dr. Jones.”

“Bobby, I thought I told you to call me Rihanna.” She laughed, hearing only an almost curse then mumbling on the other end. “Never mind. Please tell me there’s something, anything I can help you with.”

“Yeah, doc. There is and it’ - it’s definitely something. I’m going to be asking a lot from you on this and I figure I’ll owe you one for the rest of eternity, ma’am. That’s how bizarre this’ll sound.”

“Stop, I can assure you, after mom,” and did she have to choke up every single time, good lord, “after all the help you’ve given us, of course, Bobby.”

Later, after kissing the girls goodnight and informing the nanny that she’d be heading back to the clinic, Dr. Jones wondered if Bobby might be on hallucinogens, how she was a darn fool for playing along.

**********

Sitting in the Impala, Sam and Dean watch as a tall, curvy brunette stepped out from a Chevy Tahoe, nodded to them, flashed a small firearm pulled from her purse and went to unlock the clinic doors. Well past nine, the streetlamps cast glares on the open space in front, a light mist of rain coming down. Nothing was built in the open clearings across the street, the clinic itself was surrounded by dense trees on either side, a few small homes being built a couple hundred yards down the road. The night sounds of tree frogs, crickets surrounded them, far off the beaten path, and it was late, dark; this woman had balls of steel being out here alone with two strange men.

As they made their way inside, past reception, and on up to the nurse’s station, they found the woman waiting patiently. Her face was lax, until she smiled wide, and she briskly extended her hand, introduced herself.

“Dr. Rihanna Jones. Dean and Sam I’m assuming or else I’ve made a grave error. Bobby told me the specifics of your situation in advance, save you the displeasure. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Rihanna was calm on the outside, inside she was feeling overwhelmed. As in every emergency situation, she kept her head on straight, allowed her professional mannerisms to shine, center her.

One of the men met her hand, gave a solid shake, and she knew this was Sam, Bobby’s description of the reserved man, his dimples, long hair that did need a good trim, and yes, solidly built. Dean took her hand next, gave a more thorough shake with a side of flirtation and yeah…Dean was true to Bobby’s description as well. Green eyes, a war of exhaustion and worry creasing the lines around them. He was solid, shorter than his brother, but his smaller stature came with an air of authority that physically tampered down Sam’s sheer size.

“Any time ma’am. Sooo, I’m going to apologize now for the rush but we have a bun in the oven and a baby daddy to find.”

“Of course, Dean, I understand.” The doctor’s face is one of amusement, not in judgment or disgust, and Sam counts it as a win. Dean can joke but he’s not the one getting an exam, and Sam has zero desire to be prodded by a physician offended by Dean’s demeanor.

Sam’s prepared for this; he’d visited all sorts of pregnancy sites while Dean was out hustling money, and he’d even gone onto some of the message boards.

He had no idea, no man truly could, the assistance, the cattiness, the caring...so many emotions in one place, online. He'd been amazed at the staggering amount of material out there only, there was nothing relating to men carrying witch love babies.

He follows the doctor, Rihanna, into an examination room off to the left of the nurses’ station, Dean behind him, quiet, worrying to the point of steam coming out of his ears. It’d be a simple thing, to go stir crazy or have a small heart attack - whatever - when Sam takes a seat on the exam table and the doctor hands him a sheet of paper; explains it’s to go over his lap and to leave his t-shirt on. Everything else goes.

Dean’s got this look, it’s not anything Sam’s seen before so that’s a bit odd in itself. It’s as if his brother can’t decide whether to come out of his own skin or grab his crotch in manly possessiveness.

“I’ll leave you to it. Dean,” she’s trying to distract the older brother, currently stock still and eyeballing the floor with deadly intent, “give me a head’s up when he’s ready.”

The second the door closes, Sam starts taking off his boots, asks, “Dean?”

Dean’s over by the sink, turning the tap on and off, grabbing a few medical supplies to replenish their first aid kit, “yep.”

“Nothing…nothing.” His boxers off, Sam sits back on the butcher paper covering the exam table, fighting the scrap piece of paper the doctor gave him, attempting to take the corners and cover his ass. Only, to do so, the cloth scrunches up near his dick and there’s no way he can be discreet.

There’s a flicker of light, a free standing examination spotlight or something that Dean flicked on and off, then Dean’s laughing, “No use being discreet, Sam. I think everyone present knows what kind of guy you are to be in this predicament.”

Sam’s about to lay into his brother’s utter disregard to personal choice and calling persons whores, his face smoothed except for the swirl of muscle bunched in his forehead, when Dean raises his hands, “Whoa, whoa, it was – Sam. It was a bad joke, sorry. You big floozy.” With that, Dean gives Sam a wink and a firm pat on the back, opens the door and calls the doctor back to the room.

Dr. Jones explains everything in great detail, carefully and using terms as if she’s speaking to a four year old, does so without being condescending. She starts with the initial paperwork routine, Sam’s expecting it and he flings out an arm to grab hold of a yawning Dean. Dean’s being extremely cooperative but his stomach is reciting latin and Sam knows he’s about to make a dash for the vending machines in the clinic’s break room.

“Kind of need you here, in case there’s any medical stuff you know that I don’t. Medical history on dad and mom. You.”

Dean’s nodding in agreement and stating he wants coffee before the ‘fire in the sky’ stuff starts. He pries loose from Sammy and eventually comes back to the exam room just as the doctor finishes the routine weight/bp/temp stuff.

“Sam, I’m going to give you the medical records to keep track of obviously, can’t have this floating around the office, but I’d like to keep a copy of everything at my home if that’s okay. It’s not, legal, per se, but I’m thinking out of the box at the moment.”

A fuzzy sock covered stirrup on the table sways side to side when Sam’s leg knocks into it, “Yeah, sounds excellent.” And with that, a family history is taken and all goes well until the paternal portion. Well, the other paternal portion.

“He’s unknown, we were on our way to find him…” Sam’s interrupted, Dean speaking up as he’s looking a little murderous at the moment.

“Aside from setting him on the straight and narrow with his responsibilities, yeah, we’ll get a history for you ma’am.” He finishes, grinning like a loon. There’s that weird look again.

The paperwork is smooth sailing, not because they’re free and clear of chronic family illnesses but that they are unaware of any serious issues. Rihanna sees no current problems as she’s dealt with sketchier family backgrounds than the Winchesters’ so she moves them quickly towards the physical exam.

She’s explaining as she goes, performing palpitations along Sam’s upper and lower abdomen, her concentration narrowed to what she’s feeling and trying to determine. Her inner voice though, that’s a mess of hysterics; she can’t imagine how troubled Sam must be and goes with that feeling instead of the “so weird” bouncing through her head.

“Ok, first I’m feeling around your lower abdominals, trying to find the wo…,” weird, so disturbingly weird, she excuses herself, “to find the top of the womb and there it is.”

It’s all-good, until she clinically moves Sam’s flaccid shaft to the side, explains that she’ll need to lift his scrotum to continue. Sam didn’t mean to but he looked up, saw Dean as beet red as he feels and he makes a wish for the floor to crack, suck them under. Sam to get a death grip on the side of the table. He has this strange urge to hold Dean’s hand but his brother's not missed a beat. Dean scootches a chair up to Sam’s side, turns it facing Sam's head and leans against him a bit. Dean's not looking at him ... just being there.

The brothers are in a daze, both of their heads stuck on the word ‘womb’; that Sam’s got one of them. One that can be measured even. Dr. Jones found it and now she’s explaining the ...

The next moment, Sam attempts shooting up off the table and Dean’s so damn confused with the 'why' he’s ready to gank a monster, something, and distantly they hear the good doctor. Her voice breaks through the confusion a little stronger when Dean focuses around her vicinity, stares as she has her left hand up in the air and the right one somewhere between Sam’s thighs.

It’s all too much because damn, that's plain awkward.

"The h…the hell just happened?” He is totally denying the stuttering later. The room is silent, Rihanna not moving a muscle while Sam groans and shifts against where the doctor has her hand trapped between clamped thighs.

“Bueller?”

“I am so, so incredibly sorry, Sam. I thought you heard me but I must’ve gone too fast. I need you to take a few deep breaths okay. Then I’ll continue.” Rihanna doesn’t want to stress Sam out any more, his blood pressure already a bit on the high side and this, well darn.

Meanwhile, Dean's wondering 'Continue what?' because Sam’s got a dick, balls, and a hole…he'd know as he changed Sam's diapers and Sam's a dude. So sue Dean if he’s a little curious, a lot befuddled.

“Oookay, Sam has parts, you felt him up so unless there’s a prostate exam due, he’s done. I figure what, the spell reversal doesn’t take, there’s a kid in there so you have a C-section. I mean there’s no way you're having anything out your …”

“DEAN!” Sam’s working with a two-second snap timer on his harried emotions and his brother’s comments are nothing short of inappropriate reminders of what’s happening in his groin area. Dean couldn’t have a clue as to where the doctor has a finger lodged because Sam never informed him of the extra opening, so Sam isn’t taking his words as jokes, yet. As for the aforementioned finger, Sam didn’t lose it because he’s a blushing violet, no; he’s extraordinarily tight - there.

That opening was uncharted territory; he hadn’t wanted to investigate, ever, so he kept his new part as sanitary as possible and left it alone. Problem number two being that the intrusion of the doctor’s finger made his cock pay attention. Now that, that Dean’s going to notice because his brother’s gaze is heading south of his raised t-shirt and on towards where doc’s sitting.

“Sam.”

“Please, Dean, don’t make it worse. I’ll explain later, okay?.” Sam is willing his body to cooperate, his erection decidedly interested in the goings-on.

"Uh,” there’s a cough, Dean still unsure of what the hell just happened, and why Sam’s at attention, “Sam, first off, I think you owe the nice lady an apology. Then we, you and me, are discussing you going out more. That's, friggin-A Sammy, that’s highly inappropriate."

“Dean.” It’s interesting, he and the doctor must be on the same wavelength, as they say it unison. Also interesting, horrifying, is that Dean is no longer by Sam’s head, which is terribly, horribly bad. Worse, the doctor lightly nudges his legs apart, his legs having a mind of their own and widening, with Dean there, staring wide-eyed at the doctor’s finger there.

“Uh Sam, you seem to have...dude...you've got parts. I think I’m going to be sick." The color Dean turns is fascinating, and Rihanna manages to stretch her leg out far enough to toe a plastic chair over. Dean’s body thumps into it, color staying that grayish color from before.

“I swear, man, I looked in all the books, there’s nothing, no hints. I was going to tell you…can you, can you move the chair up here, Dean. Please.”

Rihanna can’t help the brothers emotionally, not in her current position, but she can get proactive as Dean’s eyes are still glued to Sam’s groin.

“Gentlemen, I’m not fond of my finger staying here any longer than necessary, as I assume you feel the same. So here’s what will happen - I’ll be seeking the cervix, once found, I'll also be doing some more palpitations so if you’d like to watch, Dean, you’ll have to ask your brother but I’d like to continue please.”

Loud screeching, as Dean moves himself and the chair up where Sam’s head is and stares at Sam’s chest. He’s blank, hand reaching up and he gets a light grip on Sam’s bicep.

“We’ll try this again, Sam. I'd like you to take a deep breath, please, and try to focus on the ceiling tiles, anything other than my fingers if you’re able. I’ll be as gentle as possible, ok?”

A quick nod and the doctor starts, a grimace crossing Sam’s face only this time he stays still, breathes coming in short huffs. Rihanna’s immensely proud of these men, feels they all deserve a good stiff drink, catches that thought, and finally reaches the womb’s cervix. All’s well, nothing abnormal, “All right, I’ll insert another finger, I want to feel the womb itself, the pregnancy,” she’s in a dream, it’s all some bizarre taco dream, too much verde sauce, “press up on the womb and press down externally with my other hand.”

She stands, waits for Sam’s nod then continues, presses down, and holy mother of pearl, that’s what she thinks it is, “Sorry for the discomfort,” Sam’s grimace turns sour, “but there it is, I definitely feel a pregnancy.” There’s a moment of disbelief, the lot of them completely stunned, then Rihanna is removing her fingers gently, snapping off her gloves.

“I want to do one more thing, Sam, and then we’ll talk at length if you’d like. This,” she points to the large machine with a monitor and a few wands attached, “this is an ultrasound machine. Given your line of work I’m sure you’ve had ample opportunity to be acquainted with them.” And the truth is they have. While they generally tried to patch themselves up, John liked to make sure the boys’ bones never set wrong or that certain injuries weren’t accompanied by internal bleeding. That and the time with Dean’s appendix.

Rihanna spreads warm gel across Sam’s abs, uses an external wand - Sam was none too pleased looking at the internal one and sent up a prayer for optimal man womb visibility - and then applied pressure. And there was a lot of pressure, the wand aggravating his bladder, and Sam was going to pee unless he slipped away, let it happen to him and fall into his own mind.

Until Dean increased the grip on his upper arm, squeezing so tight Sam’s eyes popped open.

“OW, man”

“Sam.”

“Don’t Sam me, that freaking …” he stopped, wondering at Dean’s expression, completely transfixed on something over on his other side.

Sam turned his head slowly, looking at the screen and seeing nothing until there was something. A kidney bean sized blob something with a pulsing light. There was something, sure the doctor had felt it and he’d taken the stick test and had grown a new opening but this, this made it real.

Rihanna was floored, overwhelmed and nauseous. She turned away from the monitor to see two male faces mirroring her own reactions. Bobby had warned her; let her know of the fears, demonic and god she couldn’t even begin to cope but that on the screen, everything seemed normal, for now. Speaking as gently as she could muster, “Sam, that’s your baby, and that blinking light, that is its heartbeat. Looks strong. Congratulations Dean, you’re an uncle.”


	6. Chapter 6

Despite a transitory lifestyle, the Winchesters still adhere to a few traditions. Twinkies and an auto magazine with any nameless hottie on the cover, covered inconspicuously in newspaper gift-wrap, were standard issue gifts ringing in many of Dean’s birthdays. The latest edition of Science Weekly, apples from a local stand – unattended, five-finger discount - and a small package of cheap toy cars wrapped in familiar auto magazine pages for Sam’s. A celebration these days would hardly be different, they’ve barely enough money to scrape by, at best, but Dean feels some sort of congratulations is in order.

The miles roll on as they speed towards a town, a village, around the neighborhood of thirty minutes off exit 15 from I-87. John finished a few cases up near the region, managed return visits a couple dozen times, set up base in a tiny lake-side homes those trips; each home, shack, available for cheap rental during the Sacandaga Lake’s off-season.

Not that the Winchesters had clientele, the practice seemingly skeevy to most hunters despite the services rendered. Hunters, including the brothers, usually opened small conversations on the potential cash cow they were sitting on with some of the wealthier victims; and those conversations ended with shots, grunts, and shakes of heads, worn out and exhausted.

The difference, was allowing for assistance, giving up the ghost and saying okay when the cards were too stacked. The difference this time was a promise, an open invitation from the town’s council after they were informed of the coven's disposal. The brothers were assured a place to stay indefinitely, a safe house of sorts, utilized by other hunters passing through, as needed, town council footing the bill.

Greasy spoons peppered the interstates, one offering a blue plate they couldn’t pass up, diner sandwiches and pie for Dean and a take-out box of mashed potato and peanut butter coated apples for Sam. Dean wasn't kidding about stopping; he'd packed them food while Sam called Bobby, back on the road in less than fifteen minutes.

Dinner consisted of death threats, Dean swearing a blue streak, promises of hyperventilating if Sam spilt gravy on the seats. Dean's doing a mental check list starting with the small gift-wrapped items hidden behind their duffels in the trunk; little gifts for Sam he'd think the guy would appreciate. The food becoming a second priority gives him pause, they’re not on a hunt, and not in to mad of a hurry so the concept is a little bizarre. Talking to Sam, about Sam, is next; he doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t revel in expressing and emoting whereas Sam flourishes. It takes one look, a glance to his right hip, to see the picture Doc Jones printed out for them, and next he knows it's a verbal avalanche.

Sam isn’t hungry, has to mentally prep himself to choke down a sliver of apple, then thinks on exorcising Dean; the man’s mouth a runaway train not the least of the problems as it’s Dean talking - period. The words flying at him, none intakes of air to include him, are centered on the pregnancy and that Sam needs to eat his food. Yes, Sam agrees whole-heartedly that he should be he doesn’t want, not to mention, Dean says this with his mouth full. Killing any remaining appetite Sam might have had, Dean lets the food fly, talking plans for Bean’s future; how the kid's going to play baseball, allowing for some awesome seats to all the major league games and free ballpark hot dogs and beer.

Sam interrupts briefly, “So we're talking hours of ball practice, which um, yeah that’s cool, dad never did that and it'd be kind of nice” corners of his mouth curving up, “and we're calling the kid a legume.”

“What the hell, dude. No need for that type of language, little brother.” Dean’s tsking him, mocking him, and smacking his fingers on the steering wheel to Motorhead, explains the music is his way of getting Bean a head start on quality music.

“Language? oh my god. It’s a type of b..”

“Enough, man, just let it go. Doc was talking about high blood pressure. It’s all that thinking you do, hazardous.”

Sam snorts, “I give. You astound me.”

Dean pointedly stares at him, “I’m taking that as a compliment so shut-up and gag down the rest of your meal.”

They're in the lower Adirondacks, the rolling hills they’re flying down ensure Sam keeps his eyes trained out the window and up towards the sky, the lower tree line and white lines of the road too nauseating to watch. He’s never, ever, in all 20 some years of traveling, been carsick until now, when the pregnancy has seen fit to effect quite the challenges as of late.

The low speed wakes Sam, mashed potatoes not even touched, has him looking out just as Dean pulls the car onto a leaf-riddled driveway. A flurry of emotions rivals the need to get out and stretch, so Sam steps out the car, attempting a first impression given they weren’t aware of what the house would look like. The town council gave no indication of the safe house’s working condition, for all Sam knew, the whole place could be without electricity, roaches running the joint.

Rihanna had been overnighted the keys, and Dean gives Sam an exasperated look when Sam laughs. The day they went to fetch the keys, they were greeted at the door by two teens, exact replicas of their mother from tip to toe. Both girls, in awe of the large men their mother had spoken so well of, had bum rushed the front door to get a first peek and promptly froze. Dr. Jones was close behind, grasping the girls' shoulders and assuring them that her daughters were, in fact, able to speak despite all appearances of gaped mouths and hazed over eyes. She’d shooed the girls from the doorjamb and invited the brothers in for coffee and a late lunch, simply nodding when Dean politely declined and handed over the large manila folder.

It held not only the key but was filled with her contact information, personal references, coupons and samples of baby items they would need, and a few other contact numbers of medical professionals she trusted. Persons who were well aware of what lurked in the dark, persons who would be more than happy to trade services, supplies or money for the brother’s well-honed skills. Bobby had essentially handed them over the mother lode of all contacts, and if Dean and Sam could ever get their act together, they knew they might have a shot in hell trying to repay Bobby and Doctor Jones.

The first impressions go a long way, Dean letting out an appreciative whistle as his eyes rake over the exterior; all gray vinyl siding and gloss black shutters that appear in kept condition seemingly a great start. There's no stench of moss or mildew, the home looking to have been recently pressure washed, and the home's wrap-around porch is sparsely decorated. The walk along a winding cobblestone sidewalk - lined and lit well with iron solar lamps, Dean leans to touch one, says, “Didn’t realize we were visiting Martha Stewart.”

Red and orange garden mums line the steps of the porch steps and there are two white rockers off the right of the porch. Dean’s already wondering what the catch is. Maybe tomorrow morning he'll wake up and find out the town's really run by the men who own the Stepford wives, secretly hopes not as those rockers look comfortable. He’s not above waiting, calling Sam an old man for using them first – he will, of course – and then settle into one, dibs on older one nearest the front door.

The front door stops them in their tracks, announces itself in a shade of vibrant red, its top portion an octagon, etched glass window. They stand shoulder to shoulder, a sound of protest coming from Dean as he jiggles the key, and when the door swings wide, they’re greeted with a fully furnished house. Furniture that neither of them suspects is covered in any numerous types of bodily fluids, or they hope, as the place is a safe house.

Sam’s tired, beyond even, and he wants to be in bed like yesterday despite it still being early in the evening. It’s early November though so the sun’s set a while back and that’s a good enough excuse for him. He bypasses all other home observations and heads past the kitchen, finding a bedroom down the main hallway right across from what he can quickly see is a generous sized bathroom. He wants to brag on having beat Dean to the large room but his brain is too fried to formulate the words needed.

The bedroom is dark, bar a nightlight by the door, but Sam easily finds the lamp sitting on the bedside nightstand and makes work of dumping his duffel on the floor, sorting through the items, and stripping for bed. His bed, dear god…his bed is firm and the bedding decor is a deep chocolate brown with lavender flannel sheets. There are going to be serious repercussions but Sam doesn’t give a damn as he lets loose a moan that could rival any porn star he’s ever heard. He heel-toes his shoes off in record time getting up only to join Dean in salting the doors and windows.

“Slacker.” Sam recognizes it as a jab, hears the underlying affection.

“huh?” He can’t say more, he’s a veritable mess of exhaustion he’s and his pecs are achy and Dean should know how to read his mind by now.

Dean snorts in amusement, “Good god, go to bed. I’m gonna go find a local grocery store, pick up a few things. Pantry is stocked but the fridge’s empty and holy crap, I need a beer. Already checked the perimeter, so, um…”

Sam sure as hell hopes his brother's pick-up lines are better than the ramblings he's spouting off right now. “Dean, I saw the bar. There aren’t enough words in the book to tell you how much I don’t care. Just, don’t forget to bring home some ginger ale – soda, not a girl named ginger.”

“Pffft, I‘ll miss you too.” Dean blows Sam some air kisses as he heads out, leaves Sam to his obscenely decadent sleepy time.

**********

The Mast is nestled between a seven-shop strip mall and a post office, a few houses off to the side and across the street. It's a small bar even for him, something Dean would normally stray away from what with people being nosy, except that it’s the only bar within a few blocks of the safe house and he needs a drink in his hands. The last time they were up this way, they’d found themselves in a different bar, with Sam doing what he did and here they were, right smack dab in the same fucking territory; Dean elbows the bar’s door open, letting loose some aggression.

The parking lot was sparsely filled so he’s a tad surprised to see the place full, not a one of the patrons paying him any mind. It’s a positive, allows an ease to settle in his joints as he makes his way to the bar. Tonight he's not looking for anything more than a friendly game of pool, a few beers, with a triple threat being a hook-up with a non-local. Come to think of it, the hook-up part of this whole evening sounds like music to his ears, takes notch at second place right after that beer he’s been craving.

Thing is, his brother may be an okay guy but taking care of him these days was leaving Dean with some major pipe blockage. Not that there haven’t been opportunities; in fact, there’d been a few times in the last four weeks that Dean’s found himself a lapful of dirty promises. Problem is, even if Dean were all systems go, his system keeps screaming ‘nononono’ thanks to listening to Sam.

As far as Dean’s concerned, Sam’s not a chick but he sure as hell sounds like one, and the complaints he’s been subjected to have had a detrimental effect on his libido. Three nights ago he had to call Bobby, couldn’t be the only one privy to Sam’s dissertation on the nuisance of pectoral itching during pregnancy; and maybe Dean felt bad when Bobby verbally blanched – hadn’t been aware that was possible - but watching a grown ass man whimper while scratching his nips had Dean feeling very off kilter.

“Jesus, brain bleach,” the bartender didn’t hear him, didn’t care that he’d given a full body shudder. Once he called her over, he ordered, not proof positive but confident nonetheless that a shot of whiskey with his beer would set him straight.

As soon as the bartender placed his drinks down, a short brunette, dark skin smelling of spicy goodness, brushes past him, glimpse of a lacquered fingernail before it traces the shoulder outline of his jacket. Dean immediately knows, and curses, that he’s spending too much time around his brother, flinches as he realizes the new interest is wearing a cowl neck, cable knit sweater dress with black suede knee high boots.

“Unbelievable, Sam.” He wants to hate the gigantic twerp except that it would expend too much energy, wants to watch a table near the pool tables filling up. Instead of fussing he wants to trace the outline of the brunette, her attire, let her soak into his consciousness and fill up his peripheral.

Dean’s four more shots of Jack into a starter buzz when he feels, smells, the spice-scented girl draw near. A light ‘mmm’ announces how close she is, has his pulse amped as her hips brush past him, her body moves into the tight space between himself and the bar, an interested man with a lapful of sin. Honestly, this strung out on a backlog of sexual need, Dean doesn't think it possible to be more keyed than he is now, a hair’s breath away from public indecency.

He was wrong, wants to admit it in short bursts against her neck when she shifts. Spice girl is not wearing leggings and Dean’s cock would like to report that if a person with no pants on straddles you in a public bar, you forego all embarrassment at the feel of their bare thighs riding your own. He’s a good man, well, part of the time, and he wills himself not to thrust up but really, if the universe wants him to behave it has to not throw these little curve balls.

Ms. Sweater dress - he makes a note to get a name when the buzzing clears – grinds back, scootches too far, so he catches her thighs and moves the barstool towards the bar, further pinning her between it and him. Neither are making a sound as his hands skate up her thighs, palms cool as a cucumber as he kneads her there, right by her bum, and allows three fingers on each hand – the more the merrier – to catch under the hem of her dress. He feels skin, supposes she wears a thong and has to take a moment to compose an inner cheerleader when there’s not a scrap of fabric to be found in the vicinity. Completely dies when sweater dress shakes her head knowingly and presses her lips to his cheek, “Not wearing a thing under there darlin’.”

Yep, dead.

Most people would assume Dean to chase any kind of tail for the picking and while yes, that’s been known to happen, he prefers to practice such loose restraint only during the driest of dry spells. Sam could, on the drop of a dime, spout off the majority of Dean's libido enhancers without giving it too much thought and this, with Dean’s lap full of slow torture and open access, this hits close to eighty percent of those receptors. Sweater dress is wedged in tight between his groin and the edge of the bar, so close his belt buckle is going to leave an indent. And her breasts, oh god but the lady's well endowed, all pillow soft D-cups he can’t wait to smoosh, bury his face between, and her tight nipples are jammed against his ribs. Right where they damn well should be.

He'd like to at least give the illusion of attempting to get to know her and she indulges him, tilts her head up and presses glossed lips - the softest shade of pink - right up to the shell of his ear. She's bold, a fifty point trait on that libido test.

Dean's voice comes out an octave lower, whiskey thick without him even trying. "Maybe a name, hun?"

She has her arms wrapped around his waist, holding onto the back of the barstool when he asks and there’s strained hesitance before she says, "Alexa, you can call me Lexi for short, freckles." He sputters at the nickname, doesn’t correct her.

Raising the hand not gripping a beer bottle, Dean makes the next move, bringing his thumb up to her cheek and curves a path from her brow to the corner of those supple, glossed lips. Working off a hunch, he digs the blunt tip of his thumb into the corner of her mouth roughly, making her gasp, and when she does, he slips in. Shit, Lexi Lexi Lexi, she doesn't suck hard on the digit, rather, lets him explore her mouth this way, and nudges the inside of her cheek to bulge it out just this side of wrong. It's slick and messy, two shades of insanely hot when she rolls her tongue along his fingertip. Dean’s not going to cream his pants, going to take a lot more work than this at his age, but his dick is insistent, so he darts his eyes up and down her face, asks in an almost sing-song, bass lullaby what she's up for tonight.

Lexi lets him tug his thumb free, ecstatic with her pick tonight, a gorgeous man who can keep his yap shut long enough to hear her out. What she’s into is not knowing his name; she doesn't care what he does for a living, could give a flying flip from where he hails, and she unequivocally doesn’t give a damn about his back-story.

Shapely shoulders, rounded and muscular, shake as Lexi laughs at her own thoughts, cause Dean's eyes to scrunch in confusion. The tiniest of frowns plays across his lips before he schools his face neutral again. There’s a smoky shot of top shelf whiskey waiting for them, and she pivots enough to give the barkeep a wink, slots an arm up to take the shot glass from Dean’s hand.

“A toast. Here’s to the fine piece of metal you drive.” She leers at Dean and he doesn’t allow a second to pass before he tosses back the shot, leer reciprocated.

Oh, Lexi saw what this stranger drove, having just arrived and outside long enough to see the car pull up. She greatly approves of the ridiculous hot that is the Impala and thinks it some sort of karmic blessing that freckles here was driving the beast. Yeah, she knows she’ll have no problem telling this guy what gets her panties wet.

Lexi clamps her thighs just a tad, enjoying the rough textured denim between her thighs, noticing a spot of ear she left untouched, decides this unacceptable. She paints the vulnerable flesh pink, lips brushing, a soft whisper, “What I’m into, right now, is showing you just how limber I can be in the backseat.”

A clank of glass behind her as freckles sets the shot glasses down, and then there’s shifting….her center of balance wobbly. The barstool scrapes backwards across the grimy floor as he lifts her from his lap, gets her legs resettled snugly around his waist as he stands them up. Lexi is not one for pda but she’s darn sure willing to make an exception right now. There’s a litany of expletives waiting at the tip of her tongue, stuff her momma said only Satan would let spill from his lips. Yeah, well her momma never figured on 6’1” of pure sex on wheels coming near her sweet ‘lil baby girl either, a perfect temptation she’s no intention of ignoring.

It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the woman clinging tightly to him; her face quirked in one of amusement meets fuck-me eyes. Dean’s okay with the mental voice telling him that it doesn’t matter, it’s game time and his body is ready for the final quarter. A wad of cash is thrown on the bar to cover the tab, the bartender swiping it up and moving on, completely uninterested in the show these two are giving. A spare few patrons look on though, the sight earning a jealous glare or two. Again, Dean and his inner voice could give a shit and he’s heading straight for the exit, hands cupping full cheeks, kneading the soft flesh.

A chilled breeze fluffs out her hair when he walks them outside, his body heat casting the chill off as freckles teethes at her lower lip; she bites back on his pale skin, wanting to suck and kiss. She nips carefully, has no interest in laying claim to freckles with bruises in the shape of her mouth. She wants a few minutes of bliss, fuck and move on, doesn’t care if he’ll understand but she knows freckles type, knows he’s no repeat performance. The sound of gravel crunching under his boots coming to a stop – looking up just in time see the roof of the ’67 black Chevy Impala, squirming as the sight of black on chrome has her cunt wet enough to play all night.

She’s wide eyed and bushy tailed, loving how he’s not asking any more questions without behaving as if she doesn’t have a choice in doing this. Turns out, freckles is a gentleman despite the player attitude, and he grips her tighter, gently as he crosses the parking lot, steps to the car.

The door swings open with a metal creak, car bouncing as all 5’8” of Lexi is thrown with gusto into the backseat. She wanted this, not asking to go back to his room, not offering up hers. Dean’s relieved, fairly sure Sam wouldn’t appreciate the woman’s smell…perfumed, no undies and pure sex and it’s hitting him hard. He curses himself for getting lost in thought, wants to explore every inch of sweater dress and sets to it like a man on a mission.

Lexi doesn’t have to get a clue or a man who needs one – as soon as the door clicks shut, she has two of freckles sizable fingers v’eed to splay her pussy wide; her stranger’s tongue laps between her cunt’s lips, intrusive, heated and she’s trying desperately not to grind down hard on his face. Dean loses himself in the slick, copper taste exploding across his tongue, mapping out Lexi’s folds as he grinds the ridge of his nose against her clit. Her hips take a rhythm all their own, and he holds her firm, one hand cupping the slight mound of her tummy. Two more thrusts, flicks and circles of his tongue and she’s cumming, falling apart so prettily for him.

“You, sweetheart, are superb. Want more, going to let me?” Dean’s talking to distract himself, her cocked eyebrow and thighs spread wide – Christ, one leg raised with her foot propped on the top of front seat – and needs to get a grip, reach under his waistband and squeeze the base of his dick. There’s a condom in his wallet, but he waits for her go-ahead, knows she already has him wrapped around her pinky.

“Open invitation.” She throws him a sweet wink.

It’s that sort of thinking that has him not paying attention. Next thing he knows, Dean’s being tugged over her ample form, her bottom half exposed from where she has her dress hiked up over her tits. She’s utterly serious in her quest to be fucked in this car and his dick isn’t even free of his jeans yet. He’s pushing and she’s pulling as he lifts his ass up – hopes the bar patrons don’t want an eyeful – and gets rid of the offending material. Dean was commando this evening so his stiff dick pops free, bouncing off his abs and slaps fatly, wet against her tummy in the process.

Resting between this woman’s legs, Dean's mind is on warp drive, and has no idea he could get a condom on this fast. He thinks he might’ve set some sort of record, and yes, just yes – one rough push from Lexi and he’s balls deep in wet pussy and holyfuckingchrist. It’s slipshod rough and age be damned, he isn’t going to last so he’s got her hips pinned up against his groin, lifting her ass off the seat and grinding into her without pulling out.

Shallow thrusts have him panting from exertion and she’s cumming again, bucking him and it’s on. Dean’s not one for hammering it home but his partner’s handling the pounding like a champ. So well that he can feel every square inch of his dick expand, thick and heavy like he’s operating lead weight. There’s an obscene squelch of pussy juice and his balls automatically draw up, a fresh wave of pre-orgasm tingle starting at the base. So close, so close, so…Dean looks down to see a jiggle of breasts and his orgasm hits him like a freight train.

Later, after she’d said, “not going anywhere, freckles, until we’ve don’t that twice,” he’s exhausted, sated, and if all he’s thinking is ‘got to get ginger ale’ while attempting not to hyperventilate - all loose limbs and delayed tremors that cause him to jerk - well, nobody’s the wiser.


	7. Chapter 7

The catch was - what? It could be anywhere, anything - in the way the windows provided a perfect view of the lake, the incline the house sat on, across the road from said lake, providing enough height should the waters rise; they would stay dry and perfect was unfamiliar.

The way the furniture was modular, all vibrant reds and deep browns…allowing Dean to rearrange pieces this and that way for Sam’s comfort. For those nights, and sometimes early afternoons, when the nausea or heartburn was so severe, even Sam’s bed was of little help. Convenience was usually a luxury for them.

It was in the closed off kitchen, not an open floor plan, so that Sam didn’t even have to look at the raw chicken, seasoned and oiled, waiting to be broiled – it’s Dean’s way of keeping them healthy and just kill him now. Not to mention the masculine decor, as if the interior designer went on an Ikea- fueled testosterone binge.

There was the carryover as well into the world outside their front door. It was the quickness in which Dean had acquired a freelance job of sorts. Locals taking note of the Impala and the condition in which she was kept, Dean asked to make literal house calls as a mechanic. It paid damn well for a part time gig and supplemented their income for groceries and gas, utilities - holy mother of Christ, heating oil, the bill for that alone could wipe a homeowner out - and a few other luxury items. It was far too comfortable for them not to question.

And it was the way in which Sam grew - healthy and rounder by mere centimeters outward. It was in the way he continued to train, the hunter’s defined musculature not giving an inch on any other body part due to maintaining work-out routines. Routines geared around what Dr. Jones had labeled ‘bp and month appropriate’ with substantial leeway. Sam's blood pressure was closely monitored on a daily basis with a little portable machine doc had purchased just for them.

Crunches were given a red light, many other methods of working those areas to take their place and damned if Sam didn't do them all. Modified exercises to keep his pectoral muscles strong, said it helped to ease the fullness in his chest. He could walk briskly instead of running - this in particular to Dean’s utter delight. Dean had even taken the trick salt shaker lid with, well, a fucking grain of salt because nothing beat calling Sammy “grams, the power walker.”

All that time, they still spent trying to track David. They had countless resources in the locals, people who were beginning to recognize the nice young men living together on the lake. It was a little embarrassing to know they weren’t able to flush out the bastard and get answers. Dean hadn’t truly understood the significance of why finding the witch was a timeline issue, he and Sam had talked by the roadside but left it there. He hadn’t considered another conversation on the topic, not until it was simply too late.

Not until the last week of November when a rather flushed Sam had busied past Dean – himself currently busy cooking a turkey meat atrocity for Sam that smelled like skunk - and tacked a tiny post-it on their kitchen corkboard. On it, written, “Week 14, Second Trimester.”

Dean stared at the yellow square for as long as it took to set the meat aside, stared at his brother’s retreating form then followed his brother into the living room. He had questions, so freaking many, and yet he waited. Not for too long as Sam closed his eyes and propped his ugly Yeti feet onto Dean’s legs, making a distorted grunting sound, Sam speak for “rub ’em jerk”.

Sam didn't have to look to know his brother had his "go eat a dick" face but he knew Dean would cave.

“Figured you wouldn’t ask, so I thought it was time for some Q & A.” The words hung in the air, made Sam’s mouth cotton dry.

“Big dork. Your feet are gross and you sound like you swallowed gravel. Here,” and a small tumbler of water was handed over, Sam sipping it then sitting it on the side table as Dean resumed rubbing his feet.

“Looks like I have to start, great. So then, I’ve listened to doc and read up on what to expect with all this but you don’t really give me much except, you know, bitchin about eating healthy and how you still haven’t found David. You have to give me a hint as to the inner workings of that giant brain of yours, that’s all.” Finishing, he gave a solid set of slaps to Sam’s calves.

Sam huffed, wiggled his feet to keep up the rubbing, “All right, all right. Yeah, so … you know how Doc’s been talking about symptoms easing up? Morning sickness, achy chest, bloating. Typical first trimester sort of stuff. Just, you know, now it’s the second trimester Dean. There’s no going back from this now, if,” he’s not choking up but screw it all if he isn’t angrier than hell, “if this weren’t, say, human."

Sam's rubbing his belly intensely now, as if he needs the baby to understand as well, "There’s the off chance of my demon DNA, but witch DNA? I have no clue what type of mojo this kid’s going to be packing, whether there’s a higher chance of the baby being something we normally would hunt. All because David had something to prove when he switched me around.”

Sam has his fists clenched so hard he’s white-knuckled, his pulse rising quickly, “At this point, it’s entirely unethical for me to abort this pregnancy and that just leaves me all kinds of fucked in case everything goes south.”

Dean’s had many a reason to hate David. The present reason staring him dead on because Sam isn’t looking too good, his face sickly pale bar the apples of his cheeks which are painted scarlet. He’s also panting like he just ran a marathon, despite having not moved in the last fifteen minutes. This man Dean loves with his whole being, soul and all, is panic stricken because some douche bag hexed him; didn’t even bother with the typical bad guy instruction spiel.

The additional kick to the balls - and this thought cuts deeper as Sam hadn’t shared his fears of aborting – that his brother’s right to choose is null and void specifically due to timelines and a piece of shit who didn’t have the heuvos to own up to his freaky ass mojo.

Sam’s emotions are past anger - he feels as if he’s having a heart attack. He’s acutely aware of having a head due to the migraine behind his skull and he’s sitting but damned if the room doesn’t feel like it’s spinning. His brother’s voice, tinted in frantic hues, threads through to him but he can’t get the words out to ask him to speak louder. It’s the stress; it’s finally hit him like a ton of bricks. He knows his brother is finely attuned to what’s been put on the table but in the end, it’s all on him - the pregnancy, carrying to term, giving birth.

So why wouldn’t it make sense then that this is the moment the "what" and "why" of the catch make themselves known. Because really, it’s been living right near them the whole time. Of course the catch would be David. He’s not only been in the area, he’s been watching, waiting. Sam doesn’t realize it but his blood pressure is skyrocketing, spiking to extremely dangerous levels for both him and the baby. It’s also the exact same moment the elder witch bursts through the Winchesters’ front door.

**********

It was waking up, and it was all wrong.

He’s waking and thinking he'd lost the baby; suspected his family’s luck would come back to haunt him, flay him alive once again because god knows, he hasn't been through enough torture in his relatively short life. The baby though, thinking of what has happened to something that didn't stand a chance in hell...

Doc is right there, pulling him up out of the abyss in comforting words, reassuring him that he and the fetus are okay. Sam has the ability to register that one, he’s still pregnant and two, Dean is currently in the process of committing a serious felony.

Dean's choking the life right out of David and David, while Sam is positive he has more than enough juice to stop Dean...David's letting him.

Guttural, his voice is crap, “Dean.. ungh…crap,” a whiplash of movement from his right side has him continuing, “let him go.”

The exasperation and horror mixing, churning - Dean’s body is stiff. Still, he does what his brother asks, steps over to the bed. Sam feels Dean’s fingertips tease over his chest and head further south, stopping over Sam’s free hand. Doc still hasn't let go of his left, hasn't ceased her shushes and meditative whispers, helping to keep his fears and worries in lock down.

“I want explanations. Now.”

No one spoke, the silence too loud to be any good. That is until David hesitantly steps away from the wall, hands raised in surrender, perching himself at the foot of the bed. The resulting snarl issued forth by Dean is territorial, but no actions to follow suit are taken. Seemed to him that Dean wasn’t going do anything other than breathe and hold tightly to Sam.

David is explaining though, every minute detail. Starting with Sam’s incident two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

He'd been out by way of David’s powers, much to Dean’s chagrin, cared for by the three persons hovering over him now.

Rihanna was explaining, “Sorry Sam, we don’t have case studies to go off of for male pregnancies…,” the pain and the stress sending his blood pressure soaring, causing the episode. The pain, David bursting through the front door - that had all been real.

Dean had advanced on David that night, hunting skills in full effect. David had flipped them around, had Sam’s brother up against a wall and stated if he wanted his brother to live he’d shut up and help. David let him go with the hunter’s promise to not kill him as soon as he let him down.

Turns out, David didn’t perform any life-saving spells that evening. No, what saved Sam’s life was the person David had with him. An apprentice of sorts sure, but more importantly an honest to goodness physician’s assistant. Turns out, it was magnesium sulfate and later, Dr. Jones’s intervention that did the trick.

Rihanna explained that she’d lost her cool for a mere second, “because yes, even I get the jitters”, and then hit the ground running. She’d stopped by the clinic and “borrowed” some equipment. A stupid move on her part, but the doc was showing no remorse on her lovely face as the story unfolded.

Two weeks of slumber. That had been David’s overzealous doing, and the witch informed Sam he would have no qualms doing it again if Sam didn’t stop stressing out, immediately. David showed no remorse and shrugged, “I wanted to be extra cautious, so no. I won’t apologize.”

Rihanna sat up a bit straighter, put her professional airs on about her, and began to tell Sam exactly what was expected of him in the near future. What to do for the baby’s and most importantly, his safety.

He groaned once the dreaded ‘bed rest’ was uttered, “for how long?”  
“For the moment? I’m of the opinion you should have yourself in bed for the majority of the day, the next month or so. No bargaining on this Sam. I’m working blind here no matter how many tests I run. I know and you do as well,” she made motion to files filled with printouts Sam had at the ready for anything that could wrong during a pregnancy.

“The outcome could have been drastically different had help not come as quickly. It’s… we were pretty .. it wasn’t pretty. I want your assurance that I have your full cooperation.” There was a pause as she looked between Sam and Dean.

“You know my stance on this doc, not even cracking’ a joke.” Dean was completely serious.

“You have my word. It might be a little…difficult…not used to just sitting around.”

“Sam. I’m not going to argue…” Rihanna was becoming extremely frustrated when Sam interrupted, “It’ll be difficult but I’m in. I got it.” He fidgeted, trying to work out the kinks in his neglected muscles.

With a roll of her eyes Rihanna stood, “Thanks. Don’t do me any favors. You know, you’re just as stubborn, if not more so than your brother. And I’m ignoring you right now, Dean.” She laughed when Dean’s face crumpled a bit.  
“As a concession, I don’t see where short daily walks around the property, nothing brisk please, could hurt as long as you either have Dean or the phone with you at all times.”

Sam swore to her he’d comply, completely flabbergasted with not only still having a viable pregnancy but with the three people surrounding him. Especially David, and his being alive; he was in awe of the fact. That Dean hadn’t killed then salt and burned the man, and not necessarily in that order, was a minor miracle. The fact that Dean was remaining as calm as he was made Sam sink back into the bed, allowing another round of sleep to wash over him.   
Sam Winchester had finally ceded, wanting this pregnancy, wanting to be a part of it, not as something merely happening to him. It was cliché and cheesy but sometimes, surrendering could be the most liberating act of all.

**********

17 December 16w1d

It’s a post-it note tacked next to the 14th wk. one. It’s blue as opposed to the previous one’s yellow. It's the day Sam woke up, safe if not a little worse for wear; the day Dean didn’t kill David - the bastard’s lucky; the day Rihanna realized how unprofessionally attached she was to both Sam and Dean and the new life growing inside Sam.

The day David knew that he might be going to hell, but he’d do it with a smile if it meant keeping his child and these two brothers safe. Yes, even Dean.

 

23 December 17w1d 0845

Two days until Christmas and Dean hasn’t had an actual home in, god has it been since he was four?   
Yeah, he hasn’t, and that is including Lisa’s. Sam hadn’t been there, a stupid promise, his heart never in the moment. Sam and him prior to the cage, they had motels, a few rent-by-the-week apartments but never as a home to call their own. Dean has the presents he’d brought with him when they first arrived underneath a Charlie Brown type tree; pathetic thing is green but it’s just freaking small. Too many people moving in out of the home had required them to not junk up the house, Christmas trees included.

Bobby dropped them an email earlier in the week wanting to know if they’d mind company. Sam had answered, admonished the old hunter, "That’s just…of course not Bobby!"

And the requests to visits didn’t stop. Rihanna had visited once or twice to keep track of Sam’s progress, said there was an ultrasound to be had, “I have to work out the details, give me a week to brainstorm, pull my resources.” She’d had Sam keep a more detailed journal of his diet, walks, any exercise, and any pain he felt. Sam took his notes, filled out paperwork, knew the doc was coming over for Christmas. A welcome excuse, the event morphing into something more familial as she was bringing her daughters as well.

David had a home of his own nearby, where he’d kept track of the brothers’ comings and goings. Living in the area and having his contacts/friends help him spy. Dean had sussed out of the older man how he’d used some less than natural means of finding out Sam wasn’t well. Knowing the news saw him and the PA to the house in time. Speaking of that specific arrival - David owed them some repair work on the front doorjamb. So no, Dean decides David is not to be invited.

 

23 December 17w1d 1217

Sam says David’s invited and “that’s that.” Dean’s response is a well thought out, “Fucking David and his stupid hoodoo. Probably vexed you again when he was sitting by the bed.” No amount of pie or coffee, not even home cooked pot roast makes him believe any different.

“That’s a load of bull, Dean, and you know it. His only function these days is to babysit while your off working, that’s all this is. Know what - I’m sick of him, sick of this bedroom, sick of being a freak.” It was that little outburst, hushed anger paired with glares of doom, which had Dean backtracking, making every excuse in the book to be out of the house. Not before sending David in to catch the tail end of it though.

Dean’s not sure he’s ever laughed so hard as the moment David walked in and received one of the worst emo tirades ever to spew forth from Sam, ever.

Stupid David.

 

23 December 17w1d 1800

“Bobby’s here, Bobby’s here, Bobby’s here….fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck.”

Sam’s trying not to laugh, pfft who’s he kidding, he’s having a blast watching Dean rush around like a mad man. Sam’s not sure what all there is to do as he keeps the place spotless. Dean’s no slouch either but still. Who’s he to question free entertainment, especially when it just stubbed its toe on the coffee table and fell on its ass after sock slipping through the kitchen.

Sweet.

 

23 December 17w1d 1811

Dean greeted Bobby in the front yard with a hand out. Bobby greeted Dean by smacking his hand away and giving him a total guy hug, “You look good boy. Where’s that idjit brother of yours?”

Looking down at his hand that smarts fairly decent now, “Resting. He had a nap earlier so he’s hulking up the sofa, telling me what all I’m doing wrong with decorating and stuff. Like being married.”

Bobby snorted, “Boy, if you were married, your butt wouldn’t have had time to complain about all the complaining. In fact, you wouldn’t have been trusted to do anything remotely resembling decorating. Seems Sam’s got more faith in ya than the rest of us.”

“That cuts Bobby. Truly” Dean’s holding his chest in mock hurt, directing the older hunter towards the front door.

 

25 December 17w3d

Rihanna’s daughters are hyper, loud, giggly, and two of the nicest kids they’ve ever met. The oldest, Drisana, “Dri for short please”, is currently cleaning up the day’s dishes while her younger sister, Sonia, is playing with a teeny kitten under the tree. Dean and Sam had given the ok to bring the thing, not realizing the sheer amount of terror a 2 lb. ball of fury could create.

They’d all exchanged small gifts, Sam finally getting to open Dean’s presents. The first being a silver baby spoon, the Winchester surname inscribed on the long, delicate handle along with their father’s date of birth. Choked up but moving on quickly, he let Dean hand over the second present. Sam’s long fingers made easy work of the newspaper wrap and stopped short.

A book, he’d known even wrapped, but this one…good god. Dean looked on as Sam grinned until his dimples blinded the room. It’s epic in its greatness for Sam, this book. Dean felt he might have even reclaimed some of his ‘big brother superhero’ status. Sam fingers the cover reverently, thoroughly screwed in the emotional department and absolutely cannot stop the tears.

Rihanna and the girls, Bobby, David…they all watch in utter silence as Dean grabs Sam’s knee and gives it a good squeeze and a pat. Sam sloppily mumbles his thank you, looking down at the book…up at Dean and then back down.

The hum of silence dissipates as a small ornament gets kitten thwacked and everyone comes alive, moves to finish grabbing gifts to distribute.

Sam’s still teary, watching David recline gracefully against the back of his folding chair. With a sigh he places the children’s book on the coffee table and wipes his cheeks.

While no one speaks a word on Sam's bittersweet reaction, guests find a quiet moment to themselves, flipping through pages of a children’s book. Sam's childhood book, complete with his scrawling signature and well-worn pages, it's Shel Silverstein’s “Lafcadio: The Lion Who Shot Back”.

 

27 December 17w5d

Sam’s hand shoots out to press the alarm clock buzzer. He’s grumping already as they’d forgotten to turn the heat up but god bless coffee, its smell wafting in from the kitchen thanks to Dean’s addiction. Sam stops, the smell of coffee isn’t making him want to hurl and he woke up without having to army crawl towards the bathroom. Oh sweet, sweet wonderful bliss of 2nd trimester goodness. Sam goes to piss, washes up, and walks out to shoulder check his big brother.

Today is going to be good.

 

30 December 18w1d

Today sucks giant donkey balls.

Sam feels ridiculous reclined on his bed, legs spread wide and propped way up with more pillows than he knew they owned. To this Dean had muttered something about a man needing to be comfortable on his down time and Sam just let it go. Just let it ride.

What he wasn’t going to let ride was the equipment Doctor Jones was currently setting up. So, it turns out she’d “procured” a pretty amazing get-up, some GE Voluson portable ultrasound machine, complete with probes and accessories.

Doc is explaining everything she’ll be doing in layman’s terms...everything. All Sam can comprehend is transvaginal, an internal scan through the birth canal. He hears the reasoning, and doesn’t buy any of them while Dean has gone pale from the information. Looking around the bedroom, Dean gives the guy pat on Sam’s shoulder and refuses to look at Doc and what she’s about to do.

Sam’s looking, oh yes he fucking is, as Rihanna calmly explains that it won’t hurt, that he will experience a little pressure. She needs to do this ultrasound though, check to make sure the baby is measured and an approximate weight is known. The endocavity probe, the phallic device she wants to put inside of him, it’s for a more accurate view of the fetus, and yes, she will be looking for anomalies. Dean snorts, says the last part is funny, given who’s carrying the fetus in question. Sam is not amused and wants to punch Dean in the face.

So a vaginal, and just stop - no. It’s not that word - he's a man damn it - it’s a birth canal. Sam asks that it just be referred to as the bc. Rihanna, being a woman in her mid 40’s who understands the apprehension of having someone stick things in your bits, tries not to laugh and quickly agrees. She then explains how she’s putting a gel coated condom over the probe and that is it; Dean looks back over his shoulder, in amazement and explains, “Can’t help it man. It’s like a train wreck, you can’t help but look,” and finishes with a series of nervous laughs.

Sam is past objections, clenches his hands together because there’s a ton of pressure on the small, new opening behind his sac and he has never felt so uncomfortable in his life. Doc is talking him through it though and no, it doesn’t hurt per se. An odd sensation of being filled, not unlike anal sex without the burn, only she was right about an increasing pressure.

Sam tries to act as an adult, to not squirm, as doc rotates and pushes on the probe. He feels the probe bump up against, a weird something, when Rihanna supplies the answer, “that odd sensation would be the probe pressing on your cervix.”

The ultrasound machine looks like just another high-tech laptop and Rihanna ‘mm’s’ and turns the screen so that each man can see what she’s viewing.

The screen in front of them is filled with an alien. Dean knew it; David’s a scheming whore who knocked his kid brother up with the drool monster from "Aliens", doesn’t realize he’s said this aloud. Sam’s a little calmer about the matter although he understands exactly why Dean would see the whole alien thing.

After making a few marks, doing some measurements from crown to rump, “a little under 6 inches gentleman and about 6 ½ inches long, just perfect”, and not finding anything of note, Rihanna asks them if they’d like to know the sex.

Dean’s eyes are glued to the screen but his hand is on Sam’s puffed out abdomen and it’s truly awkward for Sam being he’s a got a probe up in him but whatever. He gets it, he does. And looking up to Dean, he honestly wants what Dean decides. They stare for a second, then there’s a nod and Sam can’t speak. Dean steps in, “Yeah, crap, yeah…we want to know.”

Taking a quick look back and marking the specific area of baby bits, Rihanna smiles, “It’s a girl.”

Sam was wrong, incredibly so.

Today was amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been too tired to edit much of what was written originally, thus the reason for this chapter being...awkward, to say the least. As I said, it was a first. Thank you as always for reading. <3


	8. Chapter 8

Life’s was fairly uncomplicated for a change, all things considered. While Dean kept busy elsewhere during the work week, Sam made sure things were running smoothly at the house. There’s the routine cleaning, a few online college courses he signed up for - just for the hell of it - and then there’s research. Bobby had grown quite accustomed to having Sam stationary and at the ready for whatever hunting information he hadn't the time or resources to find himself. With all that going on, Sam spent the remainder of his time in a toss-up…read up on what’s going on inside his body - creepy, yet fascinating – or attempting to figure out David.

College memories were making reruns for him these days as well. In school, Jess had introduced Sam to one or two friends of hers who were expecting, each woman with at least one of the issues Sam had been dealing with during the pregnancy. He used to pride himself on not lumping women into stereotypes, remembering questioning Jess about their pregnant friends, whether they were merely playing into the behavioral role that most people viewed typical. Thing about it now, Sam fits almost every clichéd stereotype written about pregnancy.

The bloating, the embarrassing puffy nipples, the morning sickness, the crazy dreams - all tiny check marks he's able to tick off. Which is why it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he was well into his twentieth week and sitting on the edge of the bed, face in hands and elbows and knees in misery.

Oh, it wasn't that he was sick; rather, his libido had restarted with frightening ferocity. More so, it kicked in with a vengeance not known since his teenage years when a mere breeze would have him tenting his shorts. Arguably, one of his least favorite phases, as Dean would go on and on, gagging dramatically and fussing, “C’mon man, point that somewhere else!”

Now, though - there’d been no need to rack his brain for excuses, no compromising lists on what to say when Sam declined his brother's offers to go out and get laid during the prior months. No time to think about being owned by some local as his head had been perpetually in the toilet. Dean would lean against the bathroom doorframe, all hours of the day and night and toss out healthy doses of, “it sucks to be you,” while his eyes were clouded with worry and there you go.

It made Sam’s head hurt deciphering Dean these days.

This new symptom, it was some sort of bizarre pregnancy fuckery that’s had him on constant edge and hard enough to cut diamonds. Left no opportunities, no other outlet other than his hand. Which, okay sure, no rocket science involved and it'd get the job done but it didn't, not really.

Sam wants…oh god, he wants someone under him, someone pliable in his hands, a masculine body slick with sweat. Someone he can spend hours simply licking the salt right off of various body parts. He wants to fist the back of someone’s head, allow his fingertips to lace through short, cropped hair. He jacks off twice, and that’s just in the morning for god’s sake, creams himself thinking of yanking and bending someone just so - someone with a thick neck, corded and kissable, all his for the taking. He’s craving strong thighs wrapped around his waist and muscular arms draped over his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he pounds them within an inch of it.

He’s dying, all there is to it.

It’s not enough to fantasize about it anymore; just thinking about being balls deep in someone has him so wound up he’s leaking through his denim and damn if having his dick drool like a bitch doesn’t turn his crank. Going to find someone isn’t an option for Sam at this point. His belly’s round enough to be noticeable and firm in a way that a beer gut never would be. He’s an intelligent man but he can’t for the life of him conjure up an excuse that would explain away the oddity.

He’s just about to start crying, and he so doesn’t care if that makes him less of a man because his dick hurts, actually aches and his balls feel like lead weights and he doesn't want his god damned hand to take care of anything. An of course that's when he hears the front door open. Bemoans Dean’s timing. His brother always did have this crazy radar thing going to catch him at the most embarrassing of times. The footfalls coming through the house are too loud though, his brother’s light, stealthy, and that leaves one other man that would bother coming in announced. He knows he locked that front door so what the hell, David better not have mojo’d his way in.

Sam’s so hell bent on decimating David that he doesn’t notice the walking has ceased or the elder man freezing in the hallway, staring on in confusion. It’s less than a second. Sam doesn’t give his mind a chance to debate his instincts, looking at David like a slab of prime rib, and it’s a whole new ball game.

Sam's mind consents, lingering on facts like David is a piece of shit, a non-consensual maker of man wombs and still, he is also the epitome of sex on legs. He’s all jet black hair, short and crisp with barely enough to grab a fistful. Sam watches as the other man’s Adams apple bobs under gorgeous cinnamon skin as he swallows – envisions painting a wet stripe right there with his tongue, flexes his jaw wanting to bite.

David wears a starched blue dress shirt, his top button undone and his white undershirt is peeking through, but Sam knows - remembers that chest. Angular lines and pecs solid steel; Sam could spend day’s exploring if not for other areas. The man’s wearing black dress slacks, part of a suit obviously minus the jacket and tie, but his thighs are rock solid with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.

Sam might be drooling, fuck if he knows.

David had planned this as an impromptu visit, had sensed something was off with Sam the past week or so and if he had the timing right, knew exactly how Sam would be feeling. What he didn’t quite bank on was how a pregnant person’s increased sex drive translated to one Sam Winchester. Now though, the message was hurtling through the air, charged, loud and clear, the hunter sizing him up as if he was nothing more than prey.

Later, when the room stopped spinning, David would recall being manhandled, as in actually being lifted and thrown onto the bed. He would recall questioning, worried if the physical exertion was good or not for the baby and then frowning as Sam held himself above him, wedging his thighs between David's. Sam gave no thought to decimating his clothes, buttons torn from his shirt, David giving a shout in protest on how much he liked those particular dress pants and shirt, the aftermath a sad, shredded heap of cloth lying somewhere in the bedroom.

There is no foreplay, Sam so beyond himself he gives a pathetically primal attempt in prepping David. David counts it a win, in consideration of the thick cock hanging between Sam's thighs. The tip alone is painful – sharp, intrusive, and wrenching from him a groan of discomfort, his body unaccustomed to being penetrated, Sam’s fingers breeching virgin territory. All said though, the best part, aside from having one Sam Winchester excruciatingly horny one minute and buried balls deep in him the next, is hearing the exclamations of horror from one Dean Winchester.

David’s not a betting man, but he would willingly ante up all his fortune in saying that Dean didn’t make it past the living room before hyperventilating. David didn’t catch much, what with Sam’s grunting a litany of “oh fucks” in his ear, his ass jarred full of cock and lit up in a deep-seated agony as Sam's rhythm was brutal, but it went something along the lines of, “…warn a guy!…,” and “damn it, Sam…just wrong, wrong, wrong…”.

**********

Sam rolled off David smoothly and with care, in direct contrast to his previous actions, swearing as his back hit the bed. Gradually coming back to his senses, he tallied up what just occurred, his senses flaring as his own ass may not be wonderfully used but that he was finally sated. He mustered enough energy to raise an eyebrow in confusion as David had yet to protest.

"Yes Sam, centuries old and that's my first and perhaps last time assuming that particular position. If you'll have me," he cleared his throat, eyes never wavering from Sam's, "then maybe again, perhaps. As for consent, don't you dare presume to have me cowed. I'm perfectly capable of standing my own ground, even against a big, bad hunter such as yourself." He had paused to rub softly up Sam’s cheek, only to have the hunter shrug away.

Sam was spent and felt no inclination to indulge David his theatrics. He rolled, body searching his favorite spot on the bed and mumbling quietly for David to get out. David’s feet hit the floor before the last word was uttered, wanting to not press his luck. Bed linens caught his thigh and he stumbled over his feet, trying to make it to the bathroom in one piece in order to wash up. Sam could be as put out as he wanted, unhappy with him, but he was damned if he’d do the walk of shame covered in bodily fluids. He was old, with many higher standards to maintain, regardless of snarky pregnant lovers.

After washing, David returned to the bedroom with a wet rag and a dry, fluffy towel, setting them on the nightstand by the hunter. Snooping through a few drawers, he found a pair of Sam's old sweats and a t-shirt that had seen better days and made his way to leave. Sam's silence, while certainly not due to sleeping, was a clear-cut message to be left alone. David fumbled along the wall as he made his way out the room, tempted to say something but he faltered; simply moved along.

His thoughts were uninhibited, post-sex high and walking down the hallway until the sound of a kitchen chair being kicked out from under the table stopped him. David shook his head and loosed his tongue on a few random mutterings of overprotective siblings. It's not that he was afraid of Dean, rather, it was not knowing if today was the day the hunter had finally had enough. He rounded the kitchen entrance, gripping a little longer than necessary onto the wall to the hallway.

“How’s about a drink to impending doom.” His smirk towards the man across the table was positively dangerous and still, Dean wasn’t buying it.

“I think us having a small chat is long overdue so sit down," Dean started, his posture tense and unwavering, legs spread wide, shoulders hunched over the table top and hands palm down. Dean was positive that if they weren’t flat he’d be too inclined in choking the living hell out of the witch. Nevertheless, David sat, smirk still intact, arms spread wide to the sides in a gesture of “let me have it”.

So they talked, David holding nothing back even as the questions posed by his lover’s brother became increasingly more and more intimate. It was no small feat for him - only for these two men would he ever come clean. This being the reason Dean was aware of the countless decades of history David had under his belt, despite many details already given through clenched teeth in the wake of fists splitting lips and marring cheeks. Truth be told, David had stopped wanting to hide the moment he saw Sam in Dean's arms, the young hunter seizing on the couch; the moment he knew Sam would be okay he’d spent countless hours explaining to one pissed off brother and one unconscious one his own personal story.

"You're going to tell him everything. It's twelve past ok for this to be kept to yourself. Sam's showing, he’s further along each day and he needs to know your story before our girl is born.” That last statement had David's eyes shooting up to Dean's in surprise. He'd known Dean was accepting of Sam's condition but hadn’t the slightest inkling how attached the man had become to the life growing inside him.

"Come now? Really, Dean, I realize your affinity for your brother goes soul deep but, I'm wondering why you think you've the right to claim what's..." he'd startled as Dean's body snapped up, arm reared back and landed a nasty right hook. David's head whipped back from the impact, unprepared for that burst of violence.

"Shit!" He took a napkin from the table and wiped a spat of blood from his mouth, glaring at Dean.

"For the love of…! I'm not saying you can't do the claiming on the child, Dean. The stars only know how you feel towards your brother. I was surprised is all, as I hadn't been aware of this new development."

Dean ignored the snotty overtones David was prone to inflect in his speech, "You...” and to this, Dean had to pause.

Solid grip on the table’s edge and his eyes closed because god help him, he started again, “You don't need to be aware of anything in this house. It's a privilege Sam and me have learned to come to grips with. It can and will be revoked if you so much as think about being more than what we want in Sam or the baby's life. Now I've tolerated a ton of crap from you, David," Dean's jaw literally ached from the tense control he employed, not wanting to give in and beat the witch into the wall, "and it's only for the information and for Sam's sick need to see the good in people that you're still walking around.

Dean popped his knuckles in frustration, the crack echoing through the kitchen as he continued, "And just so you don't get any romantic notions about my brother, let me make this crystal fuckin’ clear. You and he can have your grand, epic fuck sessions all ya want but the truth is, Sam’s not falling in love. He's not pining away to make more babies with you and the only reason he himself isn’t beating you senseless is that right now, he needs answers."

Dean grunted, unclenched his fists and rolled the wrists around a few times while David popped his jaw, nodding. "Understood."

From the doorway came another voice, "Great, because I'm waiting."

Dean and David had both known he was there, they just didn’t know how to break into any ‘hellos’ at the moment.

“Got up shortly after you came out here, cleaned up and now, yeah, I kind of would like some answers.” Scrubbing a hand through his wet hair, Sam leaned back against the doorframe and waited patiently.

Dean took point easily and without having to be asked, started asking questions to which David spilled information he’d given not a few minutes prior. Sam had remained standing, a rounder hip cocked out to the side and one hand unconsciously massaging his swollen mid-section while the other lay non-threatening by his side. He'd interrupted with a few questions here and there but with nothing too threatening. His safety and that of his baby were top priority in getting answers; something David assured both men was never an issue.

However relaxed Sam seemed, he wasn't going to merely turn his cheek and especially not with his mood swings in full effect. Both men sitting had been privy to the brunt of the pendulum, knowing to not counter with stupidity. Not to provoke, but this, this was sudden and intimidating as Sam began launching a verbal attack laced with as much of the betrayal he'd felt all these prior months.

"What makes you think you're nothing more than a good fuck, David? What makes you think for even a moment that we won't hesitate to kill you as soon as we get to what you keep hiding? 'Cause I got to say," he had finally taken a seat, between the witch and his brother, "if you think for one moment you can weasel in here, try to gain our trust...I won't insult anyone's intelligence here. You know that we think you're gunning for the baby and that we're letting you come here, into our home, in order to keep an eye on you."

Sam paused and took a deep cleansing breath, not a single tremor in his massive frame stealing any of the murderous intentions in his eyes. "This child is ours. She’s my daughter, Dean's niece, and I can promise you, and you should already be aware - we have no problems in cutting you down where you stand if you're planning to take her."

Sam had been right, they all three understood each other perfectly. David had taken no offense to anything that had been said, going so far as to belie his normal relaxed attitude and allow his body to show how nervous he truly was. Fine tremors started in his shoulders as he slouched back as non-threateningly as possible.

"No, no, no. I don't want to take anything from you two, quite the opposite. That child, " a nod in Sam's direction, "is more than just some ritualistic offering. Of course there's more to it than that, but the bare bones truth is, she's yours. Yes, an offering but for you both as an I-owe-you of sorts to your father," eyes flashed up, jaws clenched, "something I'm prepared to talk about now."

**********

The hunters did their best not to gut him where he sat and the witch did his best in telling a story pertaining to their father, himself, and two shy, little boys. Boys David had fallen head over heels for the moment he saw them peering out from the backseat of a jet black muscle car. One face scrunched in obvious concern for his father, and a younger face...and how his world tilted seeing that face...completely intrigued. John spared David's life that night, having saved a small group of hikers upon direct request from the witch. John's whereabouts at a local diner given away by a contact David had in the area, both hunter and witch unknowingly in pursuit of the same werewolf. David couldn't stand the beasts - malicious, feral, destroying everything in their wake. So he'd tracked this one down and was going to give John a heads up, having no qualms on his own possible death if the hunter so desired.

"We'd stayed in contact after, only when things were desperate."

Dean's snarl was expected. "John put down evil leeches like you, sonuvabitch...you got a lot of nerve to come in here and think we're gonna believe this shit. My dad would put you down like a dog if he saw the mockery you've made of your so called relationship. Hell, I ought to do it outta respect.” Dean was panting, ready to explode.

Sam was faring no better, "So you've what? Been following us, and what? Were you creeping around, spying on two kids while they grew up? Dad didn't even trust normal civilians with our business, much less some random guy involved in magics. He never mentioned you, never wrote of you in his journal."

David interjects at the accusation, stuttering, "First, I never intended to interact or ..." he gagged a little, "or anything to do with molesting you boys, for life’s sake! I watched you, kept tabs via other safe covens, the few random hunters," he leaned forward, eyes no longer nervous, gleaming in anger in fact, "and trust that I know a quite few. That child will not be tainted by your implications that I'm some sort of pedophile. "

He remains forward, "Furthermore, your father would have no need of mentioning me, no plausible reason. John wasn't in the business of letting his niceties, good deeds, go noticed. Not while he was training you two to be smarter, more resilient than himself. My being alive was already thorn enough in his side.

Sam listened, nodding with reluctance at the answers given, "Okay, then why stick around? I mean, the catch, what's in it for you if the baby's no more than a token of appreciation to dad, us?" Sam fidgets, uncomfortable at all this talk surrounding the baby and rests his hands across his belly.

David mumbled something and to Dean, the man had looked a bit too embarrassed. Sam's the one to jump on it though and asks, "What? What was that David...sorry if I don't speak sack of shit these days?"

David knew there was no love lost between him and Sam and still, that last barb sank in, cut. Deciding not to go down that path he speaks up, "I'm sticking around for added protection," holds his hands up when both men start to move, not wanting another blow to the face, "Anything I can offer is that much more, right? Look, I'm not going to sit here and negotiate terms on whether you beat the shit out of me, or kill me for that matter, but I will give that spending time here has been, comforting. And since we're on the subject of who gets to off whom, why is it that I am still here? What with Bobby of all people being in my company during your holidays?"

Sam and Dean had had that exact discussion with Bobby once the three hunters were able to have some time to themselves. Bobby had been elusive at best on his standing with the witch, not offering anything other than: one, distaste for him, and two, saying he and John had known the man. Not that Bobby didn't want to flay him alive for what he'd done to Sam, but that David wasn't the type of monster they gave their particular brand of attention to.

"Right, and judging by your faces, we're done." Stopped them short of the expectant replies and gave his.

"Uh uh, I've given you plenty of information to chew on. I'd like to go home now, get cleaned up. Sam, your clothes will be returned, of course."

With that, David stands and walks slowly through the living room towards the front door. Stopping to turn his face slightly over his shoulder, speaking once he was sure the brothers are standing in the hallway. They are, standing shoulder to shoulder, watching, waiting for him to do something more.

"I don't want to disrupt your lives any more than I have already. Trust when I say, again, I know that I won't ever have a place as the child's father..." and Sam's bark of surprise cuts him off.

"Right. But I do hope that you can accept me in some form or the other in all three of your lives. Hate me, what have you, but I'm not giving up on this. I didn't think it'd ever get this far, not believing Sam would allow himself to carry on with the pregnancy. And now that you are, I don't ...I want to be a part of it all. In whatever capacity you'll both allow.” With that, David turned around, heading out to his car without another word, wave, or goodbye.

The living room seems devoid of air, Sam moving just an inch to shift from one aching foot to the other. Dean breaks the silence, moving forward to grab his jacket off the hook on the wall. Turning to Sam, he smirked and gave a smart slap to his brother’s arm.

"Hell Sam, only you man. Not only are you knocked up but your baby daddy's an old fart, pedo stalker. I’m proud, nice going bro. I got to go to work, catch youyou big freak."

Dean waited until David’s car was no longer visible and started to leave, still hearing the deep bass of Sam's laughter all the way down the driveway as he opened up the door to his girl. ‘Fuck their lives,’ a question or an answer as he climbed behind the wheel, deep in thought as to what all he really knew about John Winchester.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam's well into his 26th week when Dean comes home after target practice to find him immersed in a greek salad that’s so big, Dean has assured him he won’t be off the toilet for a week. Sam’s trying to have some couth these days, is trying not to laugh with his mouth full when he stops…still as a statue. He's giving Dean an all out nervous breakdown, big brother shouting, "What the hell, Sam?" 

Sam springs to life though, his new superhero juju manifesting into leaping the modular sofa in a very non-graceful way. Following up, he grabs Dean’s hands and plants them on his belly. Dean loves this belly and goes all gooey, can’t help the insta-schmoop that comes from rubbing, only to have his hand removed. By a sharp kick. 

“DUDE!”

“I KNOW!”

A few weeks pass to find Dean’s taking daily photos of what all Sam is attacking food-wise for future blackmail. Sam’s usually a chicken and steamed veggie kinda guy, bland foods that Dean swears make cardboard look appealing. So when Dean comes home after having a few drinks with David, which he can't deny and it kills him, he has to sit down in awe of the view he finds in the kitchen. 

It’s a thing of beauty really, Sam being two plates into a medium rare steak, apple slices covered in strawberry jam, a half-eaten corn cob coated in butter, a piece of toast with melted cheese and two slices of what looks to be homemade carrot cake. It's the decadent kind with cream cheese icing that has carrot bits and pineapple. Dean watches Sam raise his eyes long enough to acknowledge his presence by nodding and resumes shoveling the feast in his mouth. Four, five mouthfuls at a time…all the foods mixed and Dean’s not known to be polite when it comes to table manners but damn. 

“Dude.”

“I know.”

Rihanna and her girls have been a common fixture, amazed by the changes they see in Sam’s form and excited about the weeks ticking by. Dri is looking forward to babysitting the newborn and Sonia is looking forward to harassing Sam for future nieces or nephews. None of the three women act traumatized by the goings on, having acclimated quickly and fallen in love instantly with their newly adopted family. Dean and Sam just thankful to finally have strong female presences in their lives. Dean’s always on about 'it only taking Sam being even more of big ol’ girl' to get some lady companionship, Sam on him about how Dean’s just a 'big giant lovey bear in need of some hugs'. 

“….dude….”

“….hehe, I know…”

At 31 weeks, Sam is round and firm with Dean becoming more hands-on than ever. He’s what Sam would say “stoked” about the birthing techniques doc’s been showing them. David offered to be the one to support Sam, giving the massages and such, fortunately coming away with only a split lip. They all knew it was to be a home birth as honestly, Sam rarely ventured far from home these days what with a more intense bed rest regime and his belly being so large. No matter as Rihanna had assured the men she’d be well prepared for any emergencies. The local hospital was fully equipped to handle neonatal issues and weirdness be damned, if things went south, they were covered.

Dean comes home for lunch during Sam's 32nd week, finding Sam acting a little - off. Doc and the girls have come and gone, leaving sticky buns for the brothers along with a note of doom saying to save one for the baby daddy. Dri’s not keen on David yet and thus the term is underlined and the term 'sperm donor' written in parenthesis. Dean wants to laugh but is more concerned as to why his brother is at present: one, not eating, and two, sitting on his bed propped up by what must be the world’s tallest mountain of pillows and staring at...nothing.

Dean’s unsure of this particular minefield but goes in anyway, asking what has him so freaked. Sam seems to snap out of his stare down with the wall and steadies a very young gaze at his older brother. Without giving any explanation, he raises his form fitted black t-shirt up and over his pecs and gently presses around the area of both nipples. Dean’s watching a slide of liquid trail down Sam’s chest, slicking over the top expanse of his belly. Dean's stunned and just, well he's stunned. Sam’s wrecked, his bottom lip's trembling a little, and Dean sits down on the edge of the bed to firmly grip his brother’s calf in the only support he can fathom.

Every noise is a whisper now.

“dude.”

“I know.”

By week 36, Sam is miserable. He’s not eating half the amount he did a few weeks prior and the baby has a penchant for playing soccer with her dad’s bladder. Sam’s not sure what’s worse, his bladder getting nailed or the fact that in her present position, the baby’s often apt to lean and jab against his prostate. With the return of morning sickness, the every five minute pee-a-thon, and leaky pecs, Sam’s never felt more unattractive in his life. And yes, he is including that one time during puberty when he had a wretched case of back acne during swim season. Regardless of how embarrassing and annoying the erections are though, he has to finish his business because blue balls are not a symptom he’s willing to put up with. 

Doctor Jones has explained the whole business of labor and Sam’s pretty sure he’ll accept it with open arms at this point, even when he’s feeling totally unprepared aside from many hours of working with Dean on deep relaxation techniques, massage points and the best birthing positions. The bassinet, a gift from Bobby complete with pink baby Gund satin slobber chewies and pink mobile with protection runes as the whirlies, is stationed right by Sam’s bed. Sam’s not ready for the breast-feeding, scared out of his wits to be exact, and there are bottles and formula lined up in case. 

He’s been cleaning like a madman, nesting much to Dean’s amusement, and it’s the 38th week and 3rd day and he's obsessing recently on the mucous plug. It’s been a hot source of gross-out jokes between the hunters, both agreeing the gelatinous thing should be nicknamed after a shapeshifter Dean recently took out in Omaha. A week long hunt that had him so on edge, away with the due date right around the corner, Bobby nearly booted him across the state lines. 

Dean’s off today, relaxing and eating a bowl of Reese’s Puffs when Sam stops moving. Just stops. Dean’s not gonna freak because Sam’s done this a couple hundred times during the week, probably just another blow to the groin from Bean and hey, look at that. Sam’s face is scrunched. And did he just grunt? When he gets up from the table to put his bowl in the sink he hears it again, a grunt, and sees Sam’s wobbling towards the bathroom. Dean’s been relaxed up to this point but things feel - different. 

There are things he expects to see and has simply resigned himself to - having Sam peeing while he’s brushing his teeth, Sam loosely putting an ace bandage layered with nursing pads around his chest to catch leakage - but he’s just not ready for this. To walk up to the bathroom door just as Sam finishes standing up from the toilet, looking in at it like the Colt fell in. Dean’s game, wants to know the mighty mystery of the bowl and clears his throat a bit. Sam’s eyes lock onto his as he points towards the commode in wonder. Dean’s caught on, knows he’s gotta give Sam the obligatory gross-out look because it’s what brothers do. So yeah, there’s the plug. And hey, it’s been what, fifteen minutes since Sam came in and what do ya know, Sam’s doing the face scrunch thing and grunting again.

Holy crap.

“DUDE!!!!”

“unghhh…I Know!"

**************************

More than an hour has passed and Sam’s contractions haven’t increased. They’ve not stopped either which means Dean’s giving the all call to their support crew. And David. When the phone rings through to doc Jones’s cell, Dean’s pacing from one end of the hall to the other, daring the voice mail to come up. 

He peaks in on Sam after his fourth lap, watching the younger sibling resting for a few minutes on his side, trying to do as doc said would be prudent in getting as much rest as possible. 

It’s soothing him, watching Sam’s chest rise and fall, when doc’s voice comes across. She had recently told him of her worries, her wondering if the brother’s realized how important it was to get in touch with her once the initial labor process began. Dean knows there’s no malicious intent when she chides him of calling David as well. He knows she’s taken the brunt of moaning and groaning between himself and Dri, but her concern is with Sam and the herbal reliefs with which can be provided him by the witch. While Sam is gung-ho on the whole of natural childbirth, he's made it quite clear how if circumstances allowed, his choice would lean towards more modern...medicinal type methods. After a couple of dubious stares, Sam had said that he was comfortable enough in his masculinity and hunter ego to admit, yeah, he's a big chicken baby. So there.

Rihanna’s voice is thick with sleep when she asks if everything is ok, to which Dean takes a moment before answering. He’s choked up, having just watched Sam’s sleeping form jerk from another contraction. 

“Everything’s fine doc, just you know, Sam’s been having some small contractions….yes ma’am, they’re fifteen minutes apart.

“No, he’s taking a nap but it’s hit or miss how much rest he’s really getting. Oh, and the plug fell out. ….no ma’am, no jokes…no ma’am, hell has not frozen over - as far as I’m aware. Okay, so okay. Make him take a walk with me when he wakes. Sheesh doc, hope you bring some extra sutures ‘cause that’s gonna go over real well. You too, see you soon.”

The phone’s backlight fades as Dean slides it closed, noticing after the next contraction hits his brother the time difference. Somewhere between Dean's watching and yapping his jaw, Sam’s lost two minutes between contractions. And while he likes to pride himself on being a bad ass with crazy mad skills in handling emotional turmoil, Dean’s stomach plummets towards his feet. He’s not ready. He's not and just, wow. He’s rockin some newbie hunter shakes, knows he has to pull his shit together because this is it. Feels it under his skin as he watches Sam wake fitfully, trying to leverage himself up of the bed which spurs Dean into action.

Sam knows Dean, doc and David - and what the hell with all these D’s - he knows they mean well. But he’s feeling less than super right now and while he’s not horribly sore down there yet, he’s already grown pretty damn tired of his belly turning into the Rock of Gibraltar every thirteen minutes or so. The moccasins he's wearing, a gift from Sonia at the Preparing David had thrown, they're a little this side of heaven so that's a plus. 

Per orders, Dean‘s currently walking him, trying to get labor kicked into high gear. They both notice the moonlight glinting off wards scattered out and about their front yard, all in delicate yard décor disguise. Sam does not need added support just yet, his gait a bit slower than normal and he’s just about due for another contraction when he starts hearing the local wildlife kick into high gear.

Tree frogs starting when the onset of tightvicestopwalking racks him still, makes him lean heavily on Dean‘s shoulder. There’s a childlike yelping coming from the woods just beyond their property, coyotes kicking into a night’s worth of hunting right as Sam feels the top spike of the contraction, clenching his teeth against both sound and feeling. 

From behind the house, a crunching of twigs and saplings echo as raccoons scrounge and play in time to Sam’s mid-section releasing. He finds he wants this - a host of noises and smells becoming intertwined with his child’s birth. It’s overwrought, sappy sentimental and he’ll take this a million to one over all the other fucked up wooded memories he locks away. Monsters playing on hiking trails and spirits in lakes, none of that, not now. 

It’s not a natural sound but mechanical, the following 12 minutes up, one that he knows as a car and he’s blowing a solid whuff of air out when David pulls up in the driveway. The whip of air that’s Dean is startling and Sam only wants for there to be some peace tonight, for the two men not to go at each other’s throats. His back is in knots as he starts down the sidewalk again. 

Two hours later find the house cast in amber tones, quiet murmuring from its guests the only common aside from ever increasing moans. Sam’s found that leaning over the kitchen counter while gently rocking his hips from side to side helps him focus on his breathing. The knots in his back are being worked as Dean applies pressure, gradually adding side swipes with his thumbs out towards his hips. He’s been more than grateful for the attention, and up until this point, seven hours past the first honest to god, take your breath away contraction, he’d been happy to have the wisecracks his brother would toss out.

Now, not so much. Two minutes ago, Sam had very calmly told Dean that he needed to please hush. In those exact words. Everyone present counted this a win with Sam’s ability to remain calm. It was only a ten minutes prior, after all, that Sam had been laid out on his bed, spotlight on his groin, the doctors fingers inserted up to his tonsils, feeling around for his brain or you know, how dilated the cervix was. After which she had taken out an instrument of death, crotchet needle, or a hook…whatever, and proceeded to break his water. 

It wasn’t that it had hurt; it was the fluid itself that was a little unsettling. Sam was becomingly a little agitated and he was being ogled and spotlighted, pressed in on and now he was wet. Lovely. The bed covered as well the floor, he was cleaned up quickly and his boxers pulled back up while simultaneously being helped upright. 

David was in the kitchen while Sam swayed, watching from his peripheral while placing the herbs he’d brought with him in respective piles. Raspberry leaf tea, black cohosh, ladies mantle, juniper berries…several other assistants that wouldn’t take away Sam’s pain, just ease it some while aiding with contractions. Sam's sharp inhale and ceasing of movement found David pouring the first tonic into a small tumbler of water...not too much, Sam'd thrown up twice in the last hour.

Sam has verbally decimated the damn counter, worthless piece of laminated crap. He’s twelve hours into labor and the baby’s finally, finally dropped. Which he assumed would be a good thing however, now he doesn’t know whether to pee, poop or try to push the pressure away with his fingers. He’s not sure which feeling to focus on because there’s so much of it - thrumming of blood ringing through his ears, the nausea that's hanging around just for the hell of it. He watches David like a hawk - no good bastard can shove his tonics and leaves up his ass - and is startled by the feeling of someone holding his hand; leading him back to his bedroom. Dri's leading, helping him in sitting and bending and maneuvering until he’s flat on his back, legs bent at the knees and parted. 

Twelve hours and twenty minutes in and Sam feels familiar fingers lift his shaved sac, breach his opening and feel for dilation. He feels it because it’s happening right in time with another gut churning contraction, his channel squeezing down on the doctor’s fingers. All professionalism, Rihanna pats Sam’s inner thigh in assurance until his channel loosens and then she’s gently removing her fingers. It’s not that fun moment in time that gets him. It's the trace amounts of blood on doc’s glove that spark the 'too much', having him clench his eyes and giving himself over to everything. He gives for now and he’s gonna go with it, might even start screaming. His hysterical bout of laughing is scaring everyone so that's taking it a little too far.

Soon after, Sam’s in his safe place of meditation, needing a moment to center himself. That is, until he’s lifted once again while being told of his cervix being dilated to 8 cm. A chorus of “you're doing so well” dances along the walls but Sam stays quiet. In fact, the only noise he makes is a good solid grunt when he’s hit with another contraction three minutes later, this one packing more of a punch - and how is that even possible - than the others. So much so, Sam has hold of Dean’s shirt, using it to hoist himself onto his hands and knees on the bed, desperate to climb above the viceclamplockdown in his lower gut. 

The movement's so quick Dean lets out his own sharp laugh, not able to process his brother in enough pain to lose track of everything around him. It’s sobering - here’s a guy who’s been shot through, joints popped out of place, muscles tattered, only to suck it up and fight through it tooth and nail. This is a whole new level of fucked up for him, watching Sammy break apart like this.

As the grip over him lessens, Sam croaks out, “Dean, shit...I can’t think dude...a little help.”

David and the girls are in the room, standing back to give Sam some peace of mind. It’s been a surprise to no one that the hunter is showing signs of being caged in, trapped by the labor. And from what little they’ve come to ascertain, neither brother is prone to sit by and allow themselves to give up control, to not fight back. Rihanna's in the kitchen, needing her own moment of downtime, David’s raspberry tea getting her there. So it's just the three of them watching the two brothers in awe as Dean responds within a millisecond to Sam’s plea, coming up on the bed in front of him and shouldering Sam’s weight forward. They listen as Dean’s whispers of “so good Sammy,” and “you and me, I got you” slip slide past clumps of sweat soaked hair. 

Sonia’s the first to notice the minute change, the beginnings of slight tremors starting in Sam’s fingertips. She’s in motion, off to find her mother before Dean registers the hitch in Sam’s breathing making it rabbit quick. It’s only been a minute and a half since the last contraction before the next one is pulling Sam’s spine down, ass in the air and he’s letting loose a grunt and a string of obscenities that have David cupping Dri’s ears. Dri’s amazed with a few choice words she’d never heard in all her fourteen years, Dean’s confused as he’s thrown backwards off the bed and on his ass by Sam’s arching, and Rihanna’s the only one not dumbstruck with the scene before her. 

Sam’s center is a nucleus of harsh, violet pain. It’s a constant and just as he thought it couldn’t get worse, his whole body starts trembling. Well, fuck if he knows. He researched this, knows in the back of his mind what’s happening but all he can feel - and that’s the million dollar word right there - is violet. He never knew the color violet could translate into the feel of molten hot lava between one’s thighs but he sure as fuck does now. 

“Dean…christ!…Dean!”

Dean’s helped up by a bright eyed Sonia - a thirteen year old well accustomed to this scenario, bar the man part of course - who’s mentioning the transition stage and shouldn’t be long ‘til push time. Dean’s thankful, for what he’s not sure yet.

His attention snaps back to the bed where Sam’s awkwardly gotten himself off his hands and knees and is looking up to Dean, his gaze a firebrand of needing to escape. Dean’s there behind Sam’s back in a flash, pulling Sam into him, stroking Sam’s hair off his forehead. Wiping his neck and shoulders with cool rags. Both men vaguely register Sonia placing sterile gauze and a nasal bulb on the nightstand or that her mother is back between Sam’s spread legs, gloved fingers parting Sam’s entrance. 

 

This time though, he never feels her fingers inside, instead being told that there’s no need to check. The baby’s head will be crowning soon. Thirteen hours after starting labor, Sam’s nothing but a slick mess of sweat. His hair is clumped together and kept off his face by his brother, who happens to be the best man on …

His brother, Sam announces to the whole room, is an uncouth ass who’s befriended David, hoo ho ohhh, David aka the cocksucking whore who needs to be castrated right the fuck now. Thirteen hours and ten minutes in and Sam’s legs are bent at the knees, held in place by his brother’s firm but quaking hands. There’s a bowling ball down below his balls that’s trying to split him in two. Thirteen hours and twenty-five minutes in and Sam’s fifteen minutes into pushing.

It is beyond any shadow of a doubt the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life and he can’t let go of the pain. It’s everywhere, it’s centered right beneath his skin, it’s everything from his dick to his ass and in between. Dean’s shaking behind him, and Sam knows he’s crying. Feels the tears streak hotly down over his cheek that’s pressed tightly up against Dean’s face. Tears that are mixing with his very own. 

The next contraction shorts out all thought, his primal instinct to push an automatic thing, and with Rihanna’s urging and Dean’s counting Sam’s bearing down to get his baby here. Twice more and Rihanna stops them. Sam gulps in giant breaths of air, scared to death when the doc’s voice pulls him out and up, front and center. 

“Sam, hun, give me your hand…” it’s automatic again, no thinking simply following basic urges to obey. 

He has to scrunch forward a tiny bit as his hand is placed on, no wait... 

…between his legs…

“oh my god,” a choked groan and all he’s capable of except, “Dean”.

Rihanna is throwing a questioning look at Dean, “does the uncle want to feel?”

Sam’s next contraction negates the older brother’s experience, because he’s pushing through now with seven…eight…nine…ten. Flopping back exhausted once again into his brother’s hold.

He feels for Dean’s hand and takes a firm grip, doesn’t even ask and is risking permanent trauma here but leans them forward. Hears Dean’s breathe halt and he places his brother’s hand on the baby’s sticky tuft of hair crowning. Can’t even begin to wonder whether Dean’s utter silence is one of horror or one of bewilderment. Maybe, both? Doesn’t matter because Sam’s universe is narrowing again, his belly pure banded steel and he realizes this is it…the next few pushes are it. 

Sam’s gasping and a fresh set of tears born of painburnstretch, his entrance stretched and bulging around his child’s head and this is it…Rihanna’s urging him on and David’s voice finally comes across space, his hands out of the way but close enough to support if need be. He pushes and if he thought the stretch was tight before…

“OH GOD, OUT OUT NOW NOW NOW...”

It’s slippery and it's a minor relief as the baby’s head slips through. Sam wants to stop and hold her but he can feel her still inside and he’s done. It’s now. 

“Dean...lean me forward”

On the next contraction, with his brother’s arms wrapped firmly around his legs and supporting all six odd feet of him, Sam leans forward and reaches down to grab hold of his little girl. 

Thirteen hours and thirty minutes into labor, Sam literally pulls - pushes his daughter, Dean’s niece, into the world. Umblical cord stretched, doc preparing to cut, Sam cradles the wrinkled, sticky newborn tight against his chest as he leans back once again into Dean. Sam’s world is this, narrows down to this and it’s so simple. It’s how it’s always been, adding and subtracting from their family. It’s in his daughter’s wails, mirrored in Dean‘s eyes. It’s so simple.

And he needn't worry, as Dean leans in, “It’s okay. I got us Sam.”


End file.
